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.

Angels are quite ample cause to cry.

By day each soul must walk within its shadow. Only night can make us whole again.

...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.

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?

As spirits roam the neighborhoods at night, Let loose upon the Earth till it be light.