Graceless Sun

The sun does not rise with grace.

It filters surreptitiously through overcast haze to bleed into air with characteristic entitlement and nonchalance, as if accustomed to it’s own glow. It possesses the sky to whisper true secrets – I’m beautiful – and lures you into a staring ovation.

The sun does not rise with grace.

It is a sequential performance of scripted innocence as its own narcissism overcomes the starry stage lights and waning of night. Its stretches of whipped sugar wisps playfully brush atmosphere into predetermined sculptures of its own reflection.

The sun does not rise with grace.

It is the mechanistic, professional program of a sinister sky with which a daily routine is always predictable. It scatters its wavelengths accordingly, taking note of particle density and continues diffracting without conscience of its by-products.

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