I can spy the sun aloft. So high.
I can feel its warmth so deep. A lie.
I can carve away its beams of light
Till all that falls are strips of blight.
The shreds that drift and fell so soon
Are woven tight. A jet cocoon.
When what remains, reborn inside
The son of me that could not hide.
What am I?
© Brandewulf 2018