Sun




The sun is a woman made of clay.
She stands above the mountain- tops
Against a red velvet sky at dawn.

Her skin tone, earthy-hued, radiates from afar.
Though chipped around the edges, she is still my friend.
Nothing or no one can be flawless;
Her smile is crooked, but sweet,
And her eyes, when wide open, are always filled with awe, wonder and surprise,

A woman molded from clay
Has skin tone- mahogany hued.
Chipped around the edges,
She is rugged, forever fighting through dense fog at dawn.

When days and nights are dreary,
I cast my eyes about the sky
I search for the sun, that awesome woman, made of clay

Her warm earth tones are calming
And the joy that she exudes is always comforting.

It is when the full moon rises that I lose my grounds,
And hear spoken words that others do not hear.
Sometimes- I see horrific sights that others do not see.

While the white of the moon is stark,
The sun’s earth tones are not garish.

I wander outward, daily,
And search for this clay-toned woman
Who is called “The Sun”
She smiles her crooked smile at me,
In thanks that I am her worshiper.
,
Forever, my friend, the sun will not be as fickle as the moon,
Waxing and waning past midnight
Bringing out in me thoughts that are not truly real.

In the darkness, I run from all.
I live in fear.

I live in fear,
But when the sun looks down upon me with her loving eyes,
And when that same crooked smile appears upon her face-
I am so enticed with her pulchritude-
Those disturbing thoughts are just whisked away
Within the early April morning’s breeze.

Claudia Krizay (schizoclaud)