The Madness Of The Sun Poem by Julia Luber

And so the insanity of summer begins. No preparation ever
really suits up the competency of this challenge. Even if one
built a reenforced bunker to block out the ascending heat, the
Heat would feel practically incendiary-a chromatic collapse into
Yellow Flames. They are laughing this beast away. They feel so brave
and tropical and even prepared against it. Romance has even curdled
their lips in permanent poofs and kiss offs. Welcoming summer with
snazzy kisses and pooched out lips. They think they are clever enough,
tricky enough, sexy enough, classy enough, rich enough, lush enough
to kiss this one down. That that they are hot is all the hot the sun got:
and so they'll vanquish it by playing the same game but better. BUT
the Sun is resilient to competition. Not only because it is indifferent and
can not feel it, but because essentially nothing can compete. Polar bears
are dying despite their fangs. The earth is being dried up and dinosaurs
are being called on confused by if we need their skins to toss our babies
in and defend them against the searing and brutal scorching days. Claustraphobia
and constriction collide. Because the Sun concedes so much space as being
far away. And only the chromatic scale remains obdurate in defining the
color of a flame as strictly that same color of the Sun. Red, Orange. Yellow.