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 finger-paints.

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
arisen from dust...
all while predicting
optional futures
with pebbles thrown upon the chalk-drawn
hop scotch universe.