The Sun

The torpid Sun drags in from the East,
Her pallid rays fire to a weary heart,
Yet no match for the stagnant drops of dew,
so like the fond memories of yesterday
That cling to the grey roses on my window sill.
Directly overhead, her sordid negligee hangs agape;
This one-time lover has come too soon.
She cannot dry the dew, the promises of that Glorious World that will never be mine. And yet how those drops do boil and fester,
when she lounges above them, cheap and spent!
Like stinging acid they rip into my face and ravage my core.
Dry! Vilest memories! Dry!!

Abject misery, my only friend, why do you spit on my withered shadow?
When did this faded view, so bleak and so horrid, become my life?