Why aren’t there more poems about the Sun?

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You glow as if you have drank from the curve of the moon,

your lips cupping it’s crater-ridden surface.

As if surrounded by a thousand glittering fireflies,

as they brush you in their own personal fire.

So you glow.

On your back, you carry a mountain of gems.

Encased in stars,

enveloped in galaxies,

encaptured by the milky way.

You walk a million years across this universe,

this reality which can never touch your skin.

It is as if you are made of lava,

of burning rock and death.

I mean that in the lightest way I can.

You are bolder than Saturn,

lighter than Pluto,

hotter than Mars,

livelier than Jupiter,


and lovelier than Venus.

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