There comes a time just at the brink of morn,
The sun will wax- long since candles burn.
Fans and feeds our pain alight, seething scorn,
No balm for our relief ne'er mind our yearn.
A bowl of apples sits atop the sill.
A single one ripped random from the bowl.
The sunlight bleaches- hastens rot red kill,
Blight and maggots radiance extoll.
Man reaches forward solo in the sand,
Looking for refuge, darkness' relief.
An ugly bright beast doles out its brand,
Bathed in its light, his pain defies belief.
Strike the suns then, and rip them from the sky,
Without fire, life would never know to die.
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