he drinks the sunlight,
his fire horses paw at the clouds,
impatient.
he is a boy,
a thousand years old,
his hair like dandelions that will never turn white.
he rides across the sky
eternally,
letting the blazing chariot drive itself:
it has made the voyage countless times.
he is a candle that will never burn out.
YOU ARE READING
burnt wings → myth poetry
Poetry"you think i'm not a goddess? try me. this is a torch song. touch me and you'll burn." -margaret atwood
