the crying sun

the crying sun attacked our skin
from morning through the afternoon;
we walked around the open town --
the year, and us, were both at June --

and heat was more inside than out.
we laughed, we loved, and then we burned
from both exposure to the sun
and love we took in, unconcerned,

as we were wont to do, back then.
for we contemned such weather
when there were days and nights to fit
our young bodies


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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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