Hour 17: The Sun

Bright, blinding light
Greeted me as I looked
At him, for the first time
Like he was a miniature sun
Warm, bright, full of smiles.

Drawn to him, I was
Like the moon, cold
But couldn’t help wanting
A part of light
A part of the bright warmth.

And when everything was over
I realised, too late
The sun’s warmth is due to distance
It burns, itself and anything else
That comes close

It’s kindness, born from fire
The warmth, almost cruel in
How unbearable it really is
And like Icarus, it was me falling
Into the ocean of despair.

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