top of page

My Sun is Late

He is passion, etched desire,

Unacquainted with a sun or moon

Familiar with the pale fire

That is often gone too soon

A day without my love in arms

Is waiting for the sun’s expansion

That’s taking prospects of dissatisfaction

With a blistering compassion

Turning all to gentle seas.

Tumultuous shores now seized

By powers grand, above my own

The power that’s to all, unknown

Yet now I ask, my sun

Why are you late?

Have you only just begun

Or have you not the strength to permeate

Through time and space, and shun

This darkened pit of loneliness

This absence of His holiness

And release me from unconquered lands

That shackled both these sinful hands?

Am I to tread among my own

Take for a friend the unknown

Or must I make incensed offerings

To heaven’s unlawful kings?

I am a slave to my own mind, not a slave to you

A slave to my design, not the overarching blue

A slave I am and may remain until my love, anew

Lays me down on those dewy banks of Acheron

And again, departs too soon

You burned into me unsalvageable desire. My flesh is scorched, arteries and veins ravaged (they hang in the space between what was and could’ve been), presenting me with my own sin – I must look it in

i. If you’d ask me to recount my night I'd proclaim limb-raveging ecstasy, moon worship and indignant blood-letting. The kind of business that has to hide from itself because Lucifer and Dionysus belo

bottom of page