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 enlightment, 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.