the sun speaks to me only in warnings,
brazen, brash, challenging
and i can’t quite meet his eyes,
so i make my own overcast, look down
toward hushed mysteries; fate
tapping her feet in a rhythm like
a heartbeat; i fall in love
with each tiny cataclysmic crash
as it passes, unperturbed,
and with every breath and swell
the tormented metals of the earth shudder,
making themselves known to me
through the thick muted skin of my feet
and reassuring me, in turn,
that i exist.
the tenth muse 
I feel much the same way, some days. I like to wax existentialist (a movement to which I have no business belonging) and say that existence is a terribly fickle thing. But hell, it’s true.
Also, I do adore rampant personification, and you do it well.
Pitch-perfect. Now I’m reassured.
in love with living is the secret