Stream

The Sun rises, filling the waters with light. The stream becomes  silvery in tones, reflecting each side of your glory. There you stand,  transparent and distant, yet ever burning like coals or the Shamash  above you risen. It washes your built, not impurity removed, but ardor  and rays to the cold water added, your power and reason in the moving  infusion.

Why, though? Why these nascent springs, flowing fourth back and front  between my ventricles? Why the caged water, simulating the stream,  warmed up by my inner Sun, spreading eldritch rashes across my chest?  Why these bubbling boiling descents, rosening almost in flatter, when  water washes away my attempts to speak?

I don’t believe we ever spoke at all, yet we did, though about dead  things with wings and heads in grotesque syntony with this divine will  of mine, and maybe you were daggers on my pride, withering away my sense  of accomplishment. Yet, the water does not cease to bubble, does not  cease to be a small ocean within me, with currents and everything.

Maybe it’s another false ember, another reddened Mars that seems a  glowing ember, yet will make deserts of desolation once I land. Yet my  mind does not wander much, it instead stagnates with thoughts of your  manly jaws and robust built. Maybe I’m better off starved of oxygen,  within said barren wastelands that you may be, or may not be.

It’s almost as if I reach enlightenment, as my mind meditates upon you.  No matter how many battles you have lost, no matter how many failures  you have shown, no matter that you too are but a child in the grand  scheme of things, you are still beyond worthy of contemplation and  praise beyond measure, for you are my Sun, my blazing Hyperion.

The stream still runs. It erodes away the channels and sediments, and  with it my hopes of reason and rationality. Yet you still blaze, you  still lure me, and even if to anglerfish jaws, I do not care, for a  closer inspection is what I actually desire.