The day the sun left his arms wide enough to say goodbye to mercy’s undeniably mundane kin, was the day our candles faded into the solitude of the night. He locked himself away that night, when the two forces met over a game of chess and spoiled coffee. Stained teeth and cheshire smiles littered both parties debates as to whether or not there was hope left to contain the unwinding fallacies of the universe.
“She’s a wily one, never been the one to conform to the constraints of matter and theory” said the sorrowful sun. “I’ve grown too old to burn bridges and break bonds with the hopes that old flames can still flicker bright enough to set alight the past”
The undeniably ignorant children stroked the coarse hairs on the suns ankles, gazing into the words he laid flat and plain on canvas and tearing out the meaning for their own interpretations. The conglomerate of misery and monotony took on the shape of a crow, stalking it’s prey. But they all were cognizant that the newspaper shreds and decaying bones that they picked dry were not the catch of the day.
“You see, now here is where we strike a deal.” Said the boldest of all of those on the run. “If you were to never show your smiling face around here again, the only thing that would change would be the rags on our back and the sandals strapped to our feet. My soles are tired, give us a taste of defeat.”
Thus spawned the day that the sun hid himself away in the highest of all mountaintop perches, waiting for the day his temper flares and solar justice would once again be accepted in modern day irony.
When we learned to accept hope as nothing more than four letters to be dashed upon the rocks, came the moment that the sun burned himself out and let the crust of the lonely earth reclaim his hollow soul.
