nobody thinks of the sunrise as a metaphor, when it is, in all actuality. in thousands of years of idle orbit, earth’s inhabitants think what they see, despite theoretical defects. the human skull, a barrier to true wisdom, is so rooted to this world we know of. to sit among dewy bushes with a cup of coffee to catch the ritualized rising sun makes the moment seem fleeting, when in fact, the golden ball of fire is nothing but permanent, while transience and mortality is all we will ever know of. who are we to predict the years that the sun has left to burn in all its glory, when we have still not found a way to induce how many more times we ourselves may witness it, our momentariness, our final denouement?
us, puerile, earthly beings measure our time, our environment, and lives by the immortal sun, yet forget to see clearly the colossal disparity between it and us. just as i hold your face between my hands in clandestine visits, bathed in moonlight, it slips my mind that although you are like me, evanescent and a physical body destined to return to the earth as dust as what we started from, the ephemeral rhythm of your heart is what will let your ribs forever rise… and set… long after the sun makes the horizon its grave. time perpetuates nothing, epochs fly by one after another, yet you are my immortal metaphor, and the fire in your eyes will continue to burn for the cosmos after all deities have dropped their staffs.
precious 