Gary Priest writes short fiction and poetry. He has over thirty publications online and in print including Daily Science Fiction, The Eunoia Review and Literary Orphans. He lives in the UK at the end of a dead-end road, which may explain everything.
This Morning’s Sun
This morning’s sun reminds me of your old love letters.
Creased across the middle by thin black clouds.
Yellow, with an undertone of self doubt.
Wanting to explode,
yet intimidated by all that white space.
Unable to capture the warmth of earlier days.
This morning’s sun seems ignored by everyone but me.
Earbuds dislocating them from thoughts
of the failing star above their heads.
Safe in their soundtracks,
as I think of everything evaporating into dust,
adding tracks to my armageddon playlist.
This morning's sun casts barely any shadows.
Which forces me into painting my own.
Using green eyes, red lips and black hair
to create an undercoat.
While various eighties indie bands
deepen the hue of my manufactured gloom.
This morning’s sun will soon enough sink.
Its uncelebrated February light spent
across an uncaring hemisphere.
by the starfucking antics of another slutty moon.
Throwing sloppy silver kisses at everything.