The Sun

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Laying on the grass,
The blades grazing my cheek.
I turn to the girl beside.
Her body surrendering to the earth,
Hair blanketing her face;
Flickering eyelids submitting to restless dreams;

She was restless in dreams, a luxury she did not have being awake; Restless, but cautious.
For once, she had overheard some woman say,
“It is unkind to yourself, to have dreams that do not belong to you”.
The woman had since passed from memory, but the words still held tight.
She was forever apprehensive of the exploits of dream robbers.

I wondered what she was dreaming of. Me?
Probably not, that would be against the purpose;
one does not retreat to sleep, after all, to muse about living people.

I looked around,

Yes, the sparrow is mocking me
But no–no serry of trees to provide shadow.
It struck me only then,

The Sun is queer on afternoons like these.
Not in the mood for blinding light.
Nor for heat that makes sweat hang to the tips of your nose.

But, for a charitable heat, toasting us gently;
Rolling us over, bathing us ;
Acknowledging somehow of the unpleasant cold we had endured, on the night before–
and the unpleasant coldness we were yet to be tricked into;
knowing that these were the last hours of rest, preceding longer hours of harassment.

We were not deserving of this:
Reserving our scolding, like a mother not punishing her children at the sight of their sulking countenances, though her children had wronged her.
Yes we had wronged her.
Yes we were deserving of reproach.
Yes, of a great lecture too.

But no punishment now . No wise words.

Toasty Peace

Not even a thought to how stars would ever have the time to think of the miseries of teenagers.


Note: This poem is for the Time for Poetry Weekly Writing Challenge

Happy NaPoWriMo everone 🙂


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