Orange 

Like the sun. 

Orange sun in the simulated sky. 

Looking up, I wonder and often ask why? 

Even though I know it’s got a room inside. 

Round 

Like the sun. 

A ball of heat that isn’t hot. 

You may wonder and ask why not? 

Because it’s not real, methought. 

Vines and bumps and leaves 

Step beneath its pinkish eaves, 

And you’ll be safe until you leave. 

Home 

Shaped like a dome; 

Perfect place to write a poem. 

Because it’s warm inside 

Like the sun. 

Like the sun. 

—F. E. Nyx