The Death of the Sun

Upon fields ripe with earth, alone we lay, yearning the foretold birth of a brighter day, far beneath the heavens' maw, nearer the crystal seas and her luminescent shore we await the light we've grown to adore. The sands, the dunes, were wet with waters crystalline, of fragrant colours like none thou have seen, a place not before we have been, yet forever enamoured by vistas holy and serene. The beauty, slowly, began to decay, Slowly, we realize the sun would never rise, nor surmise, the delivery of another day. And so, it ended and began rather forlorn, Ailing no array of light, no sun, no dawn. Instead darker, if not colder too, the shadows of night so continued to brew, birthing horrors unchronicled, unexplained and new. How could we have known, or have ever knew, That the Sun would die, birthing a darkness anew?