One finally thought of resting,
having witnessed aeons of creation,
the weary glint
of the lunar star
growing dim.
The other,
being yet another creation,
burned with a different fire—
the red kiln
of the light made by man.
One day,
the lights finally intertwined,
after a millennia of dusk.
Both lustres cowered away,
too blinded by their own gleam.
The tired one,
birthed from the crux of chaos,
finally reached forward.
He soared with all his might,
the glint not darkening,
even if it set ablaze
the eager feet
it was created to guide,
even if it set ablaze
the jade sphere
he had looked upon for aeons.
He was the creation
and the creator.
So the light scattered
across the primordial Nyx,
the only way
the ancient one knew how
to not be one
with his one and only
glitter of life.
His hue refused to meet.
And so he left his light,
to lie cold
for eternities to come,
without his only luminosity.