The Poet Who Stared At the Sun

The poet who stared at the Sun
And soon his eyes were dried.
No tears to ooze out.
World was not identified.
Blinded by the glory, the poet smiled
"I don't care if my vision's defiled".

Yet, blinded, he groped for his pen.
And penned glory from the dark.
Written all songs of awe
Feeling its brilliant spark.
Blinded by the glory, the poet writes
Of the Sun and its regal might.

Noon saw the poet dancing.
"Scorching? Maybe." The poet said.
The world felt the raging burns
But the poet danced instead.
Blinded by the glory, the poet moved.
"All my sorrows would be removed".

Like every former glory, the end was near.
Soon it was evening and night.  
The poet hated the changing hours.
Hated cool breezes and absence of light.
Whilst the world slept in peace.
The poet was utterly displeased.

No matter how long this night might be
But the world will see the Sun again.
The Sun might have blinded me.
But I feel no pain.
Blinded by the glory, the poet waited.  
And felt the fruition of what he predicated.