The Sun in a Wheelchair

I went to a nursing home to visit her.

Once the pride of the summer sky,

now collapsed in a heap of formless fire.

Body barely contained in a wheelchair,

flames of fire slipping down the spine of her chair,

catching fire to her orthopedic shoes.

She gripped my hand whispered that she was tired.

“I want you to forget me,” she said,

“go tell the rest of the world that I sleep.”

Knowing her words were poison,

I ran to the mountain

and spat venomous joy at the foot of her fountain.

“The sun is dying!” I screamed to no-one

and quickly ran away to join in the false security

of the rest of the land.

My voice buried in the crags of the mountain.

Speech robbed from the sweat of the sun.

I no longer live to speak.

My words a gurgle of thought in the throat.

And now as I lie

under the pregnant rind of the summer moon,

life shuts her shallow eyes,

closes her curtains

and I wink! Goodbye!