The Spirit of the Sun

The tiger's eye looks brown and his mouth shrivels in a red pool of it's own blood. The legs still kick, it's torso emits a steam that gives out a stench worse than his own fecal matter decaying under his own decadence of it's own foreign land. The decaying politics of the animal kingdom strives for an equal balance of food and weather. The prolonged summers and nonexistent winters denounce the ominous end to all. The tiger's eye shines black like the sun. The sun as we knew it was only remembered as the last star to have given us faith of a higher being. The spirit of the sun we've come to ponder about has been driven into a wall of redwood trees and devoured by the Guardians of the West. I can still feel him. his soul hovers above his body like the hesitant sleeper.

It's a restless nightmare to rediscover every night, but every time i see it's eyes, it reminds me of a sun that once existed.