Lonely Pieces

The mythologies, in wind-torn and blood stained script, sing of the god of the sun. Will it shock you, then, to know that this shimmering orb is no man, but a goddess, bright and oh so cruel? Her rays of gold have pierced my chest until my creaking heart beat in their pulsing brilliance. When the raven called and the night came and black oil dripped from my skin, I whispered madly and tore at where my heart should be. Upon her second passing, I ran savage and aimless, finally collapsing into the sandy, ink-stained earth with a demon asleep behind my eyes. Over and over she killed me until I awoke to her gentle touch and awe inspiring reach. I live in the dark now. Through my veins flows a bruised tonic and that black oil coats my slick, silent wings. Often, I dream of what it was once like to look upon the yonder sky and feel her warmth touch my glistening, tear-stained face, yet such blessings are not for the cursed and the savage. Low lids and sickly splendor are all I’ve earned. It’s not so bad as it may seem from above the boughs of her spring green armies. I’ve even come to adore it here. These slow, sleepless spirits are kinder to me now and the sorrow moon weeps words until I am no longer seen by the living. I like it this way, but tonight the little electric lights murmured over and over: “Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?”...each one casting the same question into my extending shadow until one may have hardly seen the difference between my inky skin and the moving darkness in my wake. I thought of the sun then, and how we have come to both live in lonely pieces.