Heat Stroke.

Summer is the time for
Burnt offerings made to a Sun
That cannot look at you
Without sucking you dry.

That smile, that burns
In its scorching benevolence:
Truly derisive
In it's universal bonhomie-
Its complete impartial indifference.

You are merely another.
And he likes you, well and good.
It is only your folly
If you dry yourself up in vain
Every Summer.