The Southern Sun

Atop a noble cause one stands,

The Southern Sun creates its band.

With steely eyes and mealy passion,

Poised and still against waves of a deep navy blue, 

Men to monsters,

A brother kills his brother.

Of what nobility does this cause reside?

In the pockets of those with plenty as opposed to the many?

Or does the Southern Sun shine on all who blanket its golden fields?

May it bring beats to rhythmless hearts?

May it bring meat to destitute souls?

May it bring heat to the frigid night?

Should the Southern Sun peek above the misty morning mountains,

See the apparitions who haunt the weary and the silent,

Lay eyes upon this noble cause that its rays uplifted,

Surely it could heat the frigid bodies,

Bring warmth within the fractured chests and pooling blood,

Burn closed the gaping holes of a righteous fight,

Again restore a twinkle to the vacuous, harrowed eyes,

For when its rays strike orange and blue fabric,

The men become ecstatic, 

For they can never know,

O’ how cold they will be,

When an orange-blue glow,

Again paints the sky.

But the Southern Sun holds an eerie love in her eyes,

Reaching far within the very essence of men to divulge within them a false love,

It is for this love that men march toward the wall of passive death,

Staring into the familiar blackness of night,

The illusion of calm after the end,

Of the peaceful feeling that encompasses a serene summer night.

But the void which they will meet holds no such midnight bliss,

The love the men have held for adventure, women, the Southern Sun, is that of an icy gemstone, 

Precious in thought but bone-chillingly frigid to the touch of a warm soul.

And the women whom the men love fill their beings with unnecessary valor,

A propensity towards brazen wrath that cannot be tamed nor survived.

The adventure that some seek is in the vain hope of finding an unfound meaning,

Of pushing through the structure of society into the dysfunction of the battlefield,

The men of broken passion seek means of righting imaginary wrongs,

Resting the entirety of their being on the precipice of right and wrong.

But does the knowledge of something evil pollute a vision of something good?

Or do the souls of the good fall to evil just as the souls of evil fall to good?

The hours of light under the Southern Sun are waning, 

A deep blue wave yet again sweeps across the land sweeping til its extinction,

The Sun gasps out with its last rays of hope,

They seek lost souls to carry their plague, 

Desolate souls fall victim to their futile cause and inebriate themselves to a condemned cause,

These souls, these men, these soldiers, are like flowers,

Who having been tucked away in the shadow of a lush and prosperous garden,

Wilt and weep without the kiss of the Southern Sun.

But when it does reach them, 

It stings,

It burns,

It melts them away into lucid pulp,

Again they meet this deep piercing void,

Devoid of the glimmering Sun,

Cold and laden with the oppressive burden of death,

It is here and only here,

That men realize the cause they fought for was not of honor and dignity,

Their balloons of valor and triumph lie deflated on the icy floor,

The Southern Cause in all its glory,

Brings no warmth to their destitute faces,

Only cold dirt upon their bloodied faces,

Their boots without laces,

The Southern Sun has dealt no promised aces.