Power Surge

The light from the sun peering staleness through my open blinds

is more fluorescent than the fluorescent bulb I instinctively flick on.

-Then off.-

Favouring the unnatural light from nature

over the warm pretentious nature of a gentle and warm promise.

-Not the promise of a bulbous bulb mind you-

rather, a slim coil of bulbous fibs promising warmth it cannot grant

but casting light that impersonates the sun to fool me

(or fool itself?)

Mind; the sun glows cold 

before the moon is no longer sunken

-how I loathe the loss of the moon!-

The sun lights the moon and the moon humbles itself amongst the stars.

Not pretentious due to some vastly attained fandom

-as the “stars” on earth make out to be-

but dead and dying beings that still whisper through the cosmos

as powerful as thoughts

(unwilling to be silenced…)

Adrenaline from the noise pollution

drives me to return to my studies

-rather, studying-

as even I can only be a periodic genius,

better than most

(not enough for me.)

The falsified sin of a sun sets soon, but in the point between the sun and stars

I know my sardonic fluorescent bulb smiles

-its twisted grimace-

Prepared to coldly offer warmth in exchange for power,

electing upon the consumption of power to ignore the hollow promise of warmth

-recommending I seek heat from the heater positioned below it-

Why honour a contract when voiding the contract

means that it keeps the power to itself

-I should impeach its wicked reign-

though, the slinking bulb knows

that to rise against its glow will only damn us both

(leaving us alone in the starless darkness)

I watch the suns decent with emptiness

What are we without others to manipulate?

(Or to manipulate ourselves?)