Dying

He struggles there upon the cool, damp earth
A newborn child of a rustic hearth
Squirming around as to protest his birth
He hisses a sound like a wounded bird

Brighter red than sun-baked skin
Shining bright...he dims...then glows again
Will some sage write his story with poetic pen
This heretic cast from the flock for some grave sin?

Alas he is unnoticed among the timber
Upon the forest floor this outcast member
His birth, his life, his death no one will remember
He simply fades away in the cool of night...a dying ember.