Some call me Apollo,
but there is no sun today.
No light, no warmth
No day, no color, no brilliance.
The pallete is left cold, gray washed and empty.
No wings to burn, no chariots to race.
No arrows to pierce, no youthful beautiful arrogance.
Or rather arrogant beauty,
wreathed in yellow defiance
No sky painted in amber or violet
No cool nights for modest lovers to welcome.
No outreached palm to take.
No sparkling ruby red lips to taste.
No mysterious serene gaze to hypnotize.
No desperate whispered promises
punctuated by those thin
perfect fingers wrapped in mine.
There is no sun today. Nor will there be any in the foreseeable future.
