In Touch with my Mild Side
O how the sun rises anew each day,
relentless;
it wakes the dawn with beams of longing,
begging that dusk be forgotten.
Seeking, but never finding,
running, only to continue hiding,
aching, transformed to scorching,
and wondering where to find one thing.
It is a tireless pursuit: who can match it?
The fires that burn fuel it further
until the sun is burned by it's own weeping rays
and spots itself in embaressment.
It is doubtful the sun shall ever quit,
even more doubtful that it should ever succeed;
A star so large, so small,
is called to an end.
Here I...