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.

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.

Joy requires one to be awake, Adjusting the heart's ambience to bright. Some prefer the dark, as is their right, On grounds of agony, and to forsake Not only bliss, but all that's blessed by light.

...A fuel-less flame is nothing but a wraith, However wrought, if unsustained by passion.

Mothers are the place that we call home. On them we rest our heads and close our eyes. There's no one else who grants the same soft peace, happiness, contentment, sweet release, erasing righttime tears with lullabies, restoring the bright sun that makes us bloom.

Love of life at times requires death

Angels are quite ample cause to cry.