The sun shines high up in the sky, Smirk shown bright and warm, The creatures whisper in dismay, For blanketing shadows now gone. The bats all cower in their caves, Afraid of the beastly star, Which leans back in the painted sky, Grinning like a shark. The crickets shriek in despair, Brown bodies burnt to red, A torture for all that are alive, Immune only are the dead. The wicked sun grins wider still, Satisfied by the sight, A torture worse than death itself, Makes its light a fright.
- This is for @poeticden's writing contest (open). go check it out! - In the second last line, I mentioned how this was 'a torture worse than death itself'. I don't think death generally is really a torture, but it depends. If it's a loved one's, then yes, it's a torture.
