Life on the Surface of the Sun

 There is no stillness

On the surface of the sun;

There is only the frantic movement

Of particles

Flying blindly to escape the burning.

 

Stopping to breathe

Means dying in flames,

And looking for direction

Means losing sight

In the raging,

White light of the gas pandemonium.

 

There is no time for thought

Or reflection

On the surface of the sun;

Like walking on hot coals,

Only hotter,

Like the bluster of a tornado

Only more fearsome,

The phrenetic impulse

Sends all matter running

Lest they be lost to the fire.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- May, 2020)

Rounding into 2020, I wanted to get my poetry writing back on track, especially since I finally worked up the guts to start sending in a few poems to journals, and the pandemic shutting down the school I was working at afforded me with more free time to do this. This is one of those poems that just isn't quite up to my standards, but it marked a step in the right direction. It examines my anxiety and how sometimes there isn't really a "cause". Sometimes, I just feel this frantic sense of panic like there's a million things I should be doing and a million consequences waiting for me. It's like being on the surface of the sun trying not to get burned alive. Running is usually how I dealt with this, but due to my city's restrictions, I was limited to running in little circles out on my balcony.