Solar Flare

A dark blot on a molten giant begins this tale,

A story of struggle, conflict, and uprise I shall unveil,

These incandescent giants have bodies and workings which are beautifully unique,

Comprehending them in full is a truth we ought all to seek. 

Let us begin with our great sphere of scorching protuberance, 

Where this one darkening mound shall prove of stellar exuberance, 

The blotched-out autochthon provides contrast and becomes seen, 

Though, not to our naked eyes; for we are not to intervene. 

Surrounding the native being, wanderers huddle and gather, 

Charged with mischievous intent they look to, what appears, a cadaver.

They prod at it, and murmur obscenities to one another 

As they begin to test its patience, they too speak ill of its (and their) mother. 

These journeymen, congregate and aggregate and enervate the home lander,

Facing instantaneous judgement, they are grinded against a celestial sander.

For they misconstrued the will of their autarch, bless her rule,

Hence their insolence and doubt, in her power, prove useful fuel. 

Immediately they are dispelled and reduced, so efficiently and mightily, it was scarcely a view.

Pulverised and ionized yet kept alive to be born anew. 

The autochthon now gleamed with scattered remains- of the exultant invaders- 

And the autarch spoke her obstruent will for the raiders. 

The powders of former life gleamed fiercer and finer than gold by banquet fire, 

And so, our darkened warrior embraced them as pyre, 

Feeling himself grown stronger and brighter: 

He was becoming a being above the rest, something much lighter. 

But this superiority was not to be short lived, for as the gold dust was thrown in swirls untold,

Our autochthon looked to neighbouring stars with views which began to unfold

Now, torn in overwhelming directions by the fallen fiends,

He was determined to see the will of the autarch through, by any means. 

From their insolent ashes, born shall be the great empire of the New Sun, 

By the hands of the one who’s blinks send shivers through galaxies, and her gaze warns to run, 

And our dark blot with scattered flickers, in its sea of molten light, 

Shall, by its new-found brilliance, show the true definition of night. 

A proximal current rushes through a burning star,

Swelling and growing to become things so much smaller than they already are,

And with the final sounding of a few sonorant notes, 

The autarch cuts finely at their former throats. 

And with that, they flare into an uproar of frenzied flames, 

Their neighbours cannot idly ignore the forgetting of their names.

Thus, through their voices rise and grow like a goliath bow: 

In reality, those who chose to stay behind delivered the proverbial blow. 

The discord of insurrection and support roars in a cacophonous song;

But the throne of their mighty autarch is not to be empty for long, 

So, as she rises, she slices at the tension with such staggering finesse,

That all who stayed would revere the celestial empress. 

Thus, those who left wailing in agonies unknown, 

Move ever-forward disassociating themselves from those they used to know. 

For they burn so bright for an instant they outdo their sun,

But after their zenith, they know they have not won.  

What’s more our autochthon, that darkened warrior, is now nowhere to be seen,

His region was restored to a golden light, what possibly could it mean? 

But the throne room felt empty during that bright separation, of which I spoke,

When the solar winds carried the unfaithful, after Her mighty stroke.

And the face of the autarch, bless His infinite and absolute rule,

Appears distinct, yet so right in its veracity- that the former seemed a mule. 

The poles return to their protuberant regularity, 

Luckily enough this ordeal was not great enough to cause a singularity. 

And us Terran beings can do naught but gaze and wonder: 

Why did the sun shed some sheet of itself, and why does it greet us like trees are greeted by thunder?

Why must we lose our signal and power, 

Thinking only of their return, for hour upon hour.

It is because we do not listen to the screams of those fallen beings, 

who fought against a might they could not hope to contest.

It is because we do not smell their ashen corpses, 

And instead to touch something so distant we dare request. 

Us, who cannot yet taste the diversity of our own planet; 

Must instead, dully, be content with a sight beyond picturesque. 

And while, many may think it a passing thing,

Akin to the intrinsic wonders we breathe from our air,

We know it to be no mere orbital fling 

As we look upwards over the heavens with an eager stare;

I let these words escape my mouth:
‘‘My, oh my; what flare.’’