By day each soul must walk within its shadow. Only night can make us whole again.
Eight days the light continued on its own: A miracle, they say, but not more so Than ordinary lives of flesh and bone, Consuming wicks burned ashen long ago.
...A fuel-less flame is nothing but a wraith, However wrought, if unsustained by passion.
Love of life at times requires death
Only night can make us whole again.
Given angel's wings, where might you fly? In what sweet heaven might you find your love? Unwilling to be bound, where might you move, Lost between the wonder and the why?