A Division By One Often Makes Two

What once roared now whimpers,
Summer sun sets and beckons winter's,
Cold embrace with the ease of one used to such retreats.
The fires gone out, the embers cold,
Ash coats the wall where recently shone gold
And a passionate red, hot and fast,
The memory of it begging to last, rejected.
It stirs in the air, a ghost of warmth now past.
It fades, like the Sun's palette,
like all hues chased by Luna do.
They bleed out too gracefully, she was too cruel.