What a funny thing,
that orange sphere that glows warmly,
obscure and hidden
behind the blackened fog.
They say that the Sun used to symbolise happy things, how photosynthetic materials used to live on it's warmth.
How young children spent their days frolicking in its cheerful embrace.
Today it is hardly a happy thing.
Harsh rays that burn your skin,
sharp stinging pain.
Heat so unbearable that summers are called seasons of torment.
Not unless you're a Perfect, of course.
It seems I will stay in my Pod today,
the Sun is hardly welcome anymore.
YOU ARE READING
100AD
PoetryIt's been a hundred years since the Doom occurred. They say that we are the forgotten people, struggling to live amidst the Perfect. Life is good and has never been better. (Just some ramblings from daydreams really nothing spectacular)
