It is not yellow.

It is not orange.

It is not even the burnt red

of abraded fingers, calloused

and numb.

It is every ray and tint that

gazes intently at it.

It is my scruffed beard

and scarred eyes.

It is I.

What I lose of sight

I gain in vision.

If rationale scrambles,

then art aligns.

Passion is the object of my desire

when the sun first rises

over the sunflower fields;

when it sets

drawing the curtain of night.

I contemplate the infinite

by means of the infinitesimal,

the forgotten pieces of the puzzle.

Staring into the jaws of a raging leviathan,

I accept melancholy, madness, death,

for no man can gaze upon the sun

and come away unscathed.