Heliocentrism

This is the season of mists.

A time of sunlight diluted, parched of essence.

A bleached sky starched with greyness.

I melt into drear and weep inside for the loss,

loss of sunlight on my face.

Life is curling in over itself retreating into a shell.

I subsist on synthetic light and synthetic joy.

Pills, powders, gas and electric will get me through.

Until the sun

the sun

the sun

returns to lick its liquid face upon my wasted form,

for natural light is natural joy.