A beam of sunlight came through the old window. Its presence blinding but so additive. We shall look back at the winsome golden rays. For they have been tortured by our graphic and it vanishes once we call. We paint out the symbol of our thoughts, though they aren't our thoughts at all. We ink the beam of sunlight, ruining its purpose of luminescence and brilliance. Behind the light is more destructive. Graphite hides the tears and pain. It looks as if what you have done meant nothing. Harm and suffering has been overlooked. Will we every get back our piece of the sun? For when we pick it up it flows through our hands into an empty black hole of nothingness. When it comes to an ablaze and disappears entirely will we ever not regret our every stoke on the light?
