It doesn't shine for me.
This is not a sun-shrine.
My billowing head, gorged with blood
Is all too real.
What should I be?
Shimmering like iridescent flowers in the springtime
Bees swarm and sew their honey

When it's warm, you spend your money.

I need not thank the sun,
But gratefully accept its line with my own
And taste the knowledge of solar cell bones.

And there you are,
Draped like a silken grace
Gossamer and green
Pining for an answer
And promising me truth.

And here I am,
Illustrating a delusion
Painting hurt into your retinas
Singing about the rain
When it's sunny.

When it's warm,
You spend your money.