The Deceiving Sun
The sun looks deceivingly warm, when I’m at home,
But the cold wind outside, chills me to the very bone.
In the bright sunshine, I thought that I would bake,
But it’s freezing, and my poor fingers actually ache.
I left my jacket back at home, hung there on its peg.
For the sun to warm my frozen soul, I now do beg.
I think I will seriously have to consider my attire,
If warmth is what I seek, and is what I really desire.
The sun’s glare is so bright, and almost blinding;
Way too bright for my eyes, I am now finding.
I put on my sunglasses, to stop the sun’s glare.
The wild wind blows, and roughly ruffles my hair.
Inwardly, my nerves sense the chill, and they shiver.
Outwardly, my body can’t help, but give a slight quiver.
Only a few days previous, the weather was really hot;
There was so much warmth in the sun: now, there’s not.
I can feel the wicked wind’s powerful force;
It pushes against me, and slows my course.
The freezing wind relentlessly blows in my face.
I’m keen to escape it, and now quicken my pace.
Finally, I reach home, and switch on the heat;
I feel the warmth return to my fingers and feet.
From the wind’s relentless pounding, I’m finally free.
I snuggle down on the sofa, with a nice mug of hot tea.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(26 July 1875 – 22 February 1939)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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