The Light of the Sun

The light of the sun doesn't know what it's doing,
at least that's what Alberto says,
but if it did stop to think every once in a while,
turned its thoughts over to questions
of nothingness and being,
existence and essence,
or other such standards
of ontological enquiry,
maybe getting out of bed in the morning
would be that bit more of a struggle.

Perhaps, for a split second,
overwhelmed by the simulacra
of a million living room lightbulbs,
it would oscillate, every so slightly,
between vacant indecision,
stop, then stutter,
cough, then splutter,
and cast long sporadic shadows
over slow simmering siestas,
or cover snow crisp afternoons
in a veil of trembling darkness.

Forced to face up to the finitude
of a 14 billion year life span,
the sun might even decide to just
give up all together,
to pack its bags and leave one day
and never come back,
fold its rays inside the pocket
of its one good leather jacket,
and stomp straight out the door
without so much as a goodbye.

Perhaps, if the sun really knew what it was doing,
it would simply stop to save its reflection
in the sparkle of the sea,
breathe one last heavy, drawn out sigh,
then lay down, close its weary eyes,
and never wake up again.