Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The sun was soft
and I coughed me
off that I’d dream
while its beams would
deem to grace me
with a sea of
free alarm calls at
five o’clock, that I’d
bat my eyes and
give Day hand as
planned by others—
sisters, brothers,
mothers, fathers.
The sun was dim;
I thanked him for
glimmer rather than glare,
rather than staring me
square in the face
with a misplaced seeming
grace of day’s break.
For my sake, I
staked my trust in
what may slow begin
to shape itself within
the din of Now—.
The sun was slow
and even tough I
know it timely came,
all the same I
name it gracious for
the holy spacious light
that caressed my rest.

the sun is a fuckin' fusion dynamo of divine language, with heat and span to eclipse any and all possible black space resistance... but sometimes even the sun can't solve this atmosphere. I'm soft in that way too, I suppose.