He is a child of the sun,
Spurned by a world who would not know him.
His heart is warped wood,
Rotten in some places but still beating.
He still pulses with light.
Whispering to the stars above to
Deliver him from the ache of living.
What he doesn't hear are the stars,
In hushed tones the remind him of joy.
The light shimmer of dew on grass
The droplets reflect the brilliant saccharine orange that reverberated through the mountain tops.
The way clouds roll lazily overhead.
The fresh scent of wet earth after an unexpected storm.
He weathered that storm,
And finally he sees the sun on the other side.
