My Sun, Farberisms 4/29/25

I just don’t want to think

That sin itself

Has no strings.

No noir in sight,

Just these Acacia trees

Soaking up the light.

I hear it —

A foreign moan

From a distant storm,

Prevailing with its groan.

As the boat sails to the lee,

Breaking the wind’s grip,

She tries with all her might

To run like a river—

Under the blackness of night.

It’s more than a dark sky’s wind

Or a kicked-up breeze—

A storm down Potemkin Boulevard,

Gales that freeze.

A sky of fire burning,

The hurricane’s blaze

On a world still turning

Through the heated haze.

Our Sun looks effortless,

Wearing a necktie—

No hat up top—

Blowing up the maelstrom,

Never wanting to stop.

Peace,

Chris