The Rebellion, The Fleet, The Star, The Sun

Now, there is dark:
past the midnight hour, 
and one more—
past the rubble, and the drone
that plagues the streets
at the first ray of dawn;
doors are shut, 
people move on, leaving empty homes. 

It takes courage to defy norm:
to not be lured by voices and mirages 
of comradery and love.
To reclude from the streets, 
into the dark, 
when the sun falls, 
after another addressal to the barn.

Then up aboard, on my means of flight, 
I take to the sky, evading the patrol,
blowing past the orb,
into a sparsely lit night, 
spilt with brief clusters of stars. 
The sun never fell, I saw.
The myth came about 
after a collective agreement of man,
to heal, and purge 
all voices of the day,
and of the sun, 
when after dusk, homes were filled 
with lamps lit dim, 
for a couple hours of rest. 

The day that'd follow,
forgetful it was: 
the sun conquered the sky
and made way for light that dried the crop,
and lakes, and ponds.
The conglomerate fell apart
as people fought for water, food, 
and shade.
They ventured for days, 
for better shelter, and prey, 
for some forest
boasting perpetual shade.
But their numbers grew thin, 
and all contact was lost.

The Rebellion was now long gone,
no longer a threat,
no longer in control
of us hordes, on every planet they held;
neither was there hope of dawn
as it was, or for much of what was set ablaze,
with the famine and the hordes.