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
The Sun lays a blanket of beauty over it,
And silently whispers goodnight.
But the tyrant knows it is time
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.