Sunstrike

I walk through the field of perilous grey
When fine blades of ash take over the day.
The world is covered in dreary damp paint
and the sound of contact is distant and faint.
For all of the rumble, there’s nothing quite like
the shuddering, delirious sight of sunstrike.

My pupils, they shrink to the size of a pin,
The massive sky fog rolls around in its skin,
the light touches all, it seems it must grow.
The air all around it is aching to glow.
There is no denying the thrill of the spike,
the shuddering, delirious sight of sunstrike.

And as it was there, near a moment it’s gone,
it has not the patience, for all of its brawn.
The light must retreat to its billowy nest.
It leaves it’s sole mark, running shoulder to chest.
a brilliant lattice that seems nothing unlike
the shuddering, delirious sight of sunstrike.