Setting sun (poem) (kind of)

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The stories most audaciously told, mould my very soul, in age I increase, the son looks upon the sun as the father once did standing now where the source now sits. Decaying beauty is rarely caught all for naught is the mirrors distraught.
As potions and spells fail the beauty sun, she realises her times has come as we, as gracefully bellow she disappears, with awe do we watch the setting of the sun, never again yet that sun ne’er seen bring the morrow, her resemblance, for another cycle of a dying breed

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