Here Comes The Sun
The sun knocks on my door, he comes uninvited, and I hide under blankets of sorrow, but the sun breaks in, like he owns the place, like he knows no barriers, no borders, he claims he's been here since forever, and he claims the house and me, as the walls start to yawn like weary…
The sun knocks on my door, he comes uninvited, and I hide under blankets of sorrow, but the sun breaks in, like he owns the place, like he knows no barriers, no borders, he claims he's been here since forever, and he claims the house and me, as the walls start to yawn like weary accordions stretching their bellows into long ribbons that wrap around my ankles and pull me gently into a river of disjointed bliss, and the sun giggles in a voice made of orange juice hiccups, he asks me to dance with a flock of swans who argue politely about the proper way to fry clouds for breakfast and how grief swallows lakes, and we all tumble together through a meadow where the grass whispers secrets about the moon's love affair with the dark monster of sadness, and the sun winks at me with an eye full of sparkling sunshine, while my shoes run away with a happy alternate me arguing over the correct pronunciation of silence, the sun saves me, because I was extinct and I scratch back into existence like I deserve it but I probably don't, and everything dissolves into a soft pink foam of pure joy where even gravity takes a bow before floating away on a yellow balloon, leaving only the sun and me laughing in a single endless breath of joyful wonder that never ends but has already forgotten where it began.
