The Sun

Where once her blazing bonfire hair
gave rise to sharply folded ashen origami,
a thimble full of angels sit
atop painted paper picket fences,
lost in space, awaiting silver spaceship mail trucks,
fresh mango deliveries, the moonrise...
all while tossing ice encrusted diamond dice
to determine births and deaths
of stars.

Where now her tattooed flaming heart
pulses blindly into conclusions of millennia,
a roomful of pinkly piggy dignitaries pause to pray
before gobbling noontime slop, cooked at
Fahrenheit four-fifty-one
for double digit decades until badly burned...
all while underneath a mushroom,
faerie ladies play pinochle for potfuls
of fingerpaints.

Where someday her blistering skin will scorch
and crack, and peel life away in layers,
a belt of asteroids put forth propositions
dipped in silver ink for planets to consider
studying the rocky surfaces of friends
whose faces mirror oceans risen from dust...
all while predicting optional futures
with pebbles thrown upon the chalk-drawn
hop scotch universe.