Winter

The night is cold, wintery almost,
This guy sits alone by the bedpost.

In the silence that has engulfed the night,
He embraces the loneliness, letting go of foresight.

The loneliness engulfs his heart,
The cold tempts him to accept the dark.

But he is the son of the Sun,
He doesn't know another promised one.

He realises the naturality of lust over love,
Holds true for the imaginary gods seated above.

What does he seek? The only one of his kind?
Maybe humans, for what's right, should take a stand.

On this wronged planet, he has given up hope,
The ladies and the gentlemen, all seem doped.

He can not act like you lesser mortals,
He wasn't raised to.
But this world wants to throw him into,
The isolated well you frogs are used to.

Will somebody tell me,
What was his crime?
That he was a man of his words?
That he was way ahead of his time?