Inside Of The Sun Poem by James McLain

I was put not only here but there in the place of your sun.
Freed from all of the pain, pain that comes and goes.
Do you not know about what it is, thus by my any means?
What ever the whether I should have forever done it.
I being allowed by you to you to do it.
And everything sits down in the middle your emerald eye is there.
It is her I shout and, waiting for him it dies never simply.
Then is why I never asking of you why I stop.
If I am whom I am thought inside doubt, why you are here reading this now.
I am the person who shouts to you, then you to me, should we lie?
So, I am he whom you know what the whether will bring.
And how I should have done, what you did milked exactly.
Until the blue blood turns red you intend to drain it, is it not turned.
Or is your red turned out to be my blood pure and blue?
The cutting and sawing of which it is opened.
And moving in you, I see the morning woe sickness.
It plows the bare plains exactly to choke off the sickness.
Your very center likes mine, your the one it is cool, when extracted.
But warm left inside of the sun you are pressingly, ringed exactly.
Yours is the seat and the land of our burning blood,
and blood is known to be everything and blood is your claim.