wb :

when the eastborn disk flails at his zenith
but his bright blood stains the cotton-clouds black
then you know the world is not right at all.

high on his jewelled throne, so very small
the sun-king sinking must feel some monstrous lack
so far removed from earthy pulse and pith

he has a heart to fill but no eyes or ears
(even so it has no strings to be tugged at)
and his bowels burn up everything he consumes
poor helios will never be anything but fire

so he cries, and the clouds hold blood and tears
when they strain against the weight of sunbeams
then their toil rumbles all across the earth.

even the sun must have a doctor to his heart
i told a joke and the rains stopped wailing
it seems heaven has a sense of humour after all

Labels: poetry