The sun

Set on the King,

His crown gleaming as he,

Shrieked with hatred

That the sun was commanding the attention

Of the world.

The sun’s screaming orange

And howling purple

Lit the sky

In a way the tyrant couldn’t compete.

The sun exploded in fatal colors,

For what King could resist the catastrophic blow,

If that punch meant power.

Kings can’t acquire the spectacular

That blazes in the heavens.

And at this crucial time,

Before the cosmos closes its bright eyes

As it becomes calm and

Exhausted,

The Sun lays a blanket of beauty over it,

And silently whispers goodnight.

But the tyrant knows it is time

To Strike.

So he puts on his sunset face

And darts through the sunset sky

Telling only white fabrications to the complacent spectators.

But in the end, the tyrant cries as the

Colors of the sun’s blanket

Cover him too and he gets doused

By the beauty of the world.