This—the longest day of the year—is illusion. 

Listen to me:  Longevity is a lie.

We have–
only–
now.

The entire planet turns its face,

like a sunflower, like the creeping

vines of buttercups, artic poppies,

ranunculus adoneus

to a sun that is unwavering–

relentless–in its fiery

affection,

meanwhile,

we are wilting, melting,

wasting

away to

nothing.

If Three A.M. is the hour

of writers, painters,

poets, musicians,

silence seekers,

overthinkers,

creatives,

then light comes,

only, in our

darkness.