The Sun

The Sun.
Burning low against the horizon.
Twelve o'clock
Twelve degrees.
What warmth!
What warmth?
Negative is the air,
Clear the skies,
For the Sun to make way,
For the moon.
As night begins as the day starts.
In the city that I am calling,
My home.

The Other Ourselves

Who are we to question?

Is it our right, do we think?

Our arrogance, ignorance.

Our petulance; we petty race

of men.

Questioning the order,

Needed but not for us,

We petty race of men.

To our other side, oursleves.

Two halves a whole,

Our better half part of the

Darkness.

Due to we petty race

of men.

They are not shrouded by

night. As it lights the way

for the Sun. 

We Proceed from our first side.
We petty race of men.