Degeneration

[This is not poetry. It's a story. Kinda.]

There was once a Sun, strong and active,
Who would race across the skies everyday.
People admired him, because he was assertive,
At his daily call, Life to earth would stray.
But now, there's only a lonely, tired Sun left,
Who roams the skies in vain, searching
and searching, for something to mend the rift,
Between him and his human hatchlings,
Who gossip about his not roaming, but staying in one place,
While they children do all the work as they go round and round him,
Hurling insults about how he darkens each fair face.
About how he tears through the protective ozone film
[As though that's his fault]. And that's not the end,
Now they're talking about what should be his substitute,
When he finally burns out, unable to defend
His noble cause of bringing life to earth, which none can refute.
And after he burns out, his hatchlings will turn on each other,
Killing names and reputations before the person is dead,
And all good memories will be lost and there won't be a shoulder
To lean on. And the blood will bathe everything in red.
Perhaps then, the last memory of this world will be
The beautiful sunset that by then, none will see.