The Sun Gone Bad

The sun gone bad is lurking in the distance,

a jack-o-lantern framed against the cellar of the sky.

I continue staring aimlessly long after it gives in to the horizon,

the night swallowing its seed to blue and then to black.

I'm swallowing too, the bile of countless compromises;

it's all my strength just to wrestle my weakness weary to its knees.

Then I rise, along with the consequences

before I sit, the present tense stealing my senses.

Tripping the light fantastic to an armchair and a remote,

a cold compress pressed against my wanting soaked into levity,

and a bracing, burning chaser of equilibrium or just denial.

The proselytizing on the tube washes over me as I surrender to its siren song.