Are you a burnt little matchstick? Struck against scraping sandpaper Till you shine bright enough to be a star, But the joy of being enough is robbed by the end, without going far.
Burnt, crippled, broken, and used, Now showing no more potential nor promise, You are thrown away by the world, Tossed in a pile without a thought, The light you brought, they forgot, So they have simply left you to rot.
I suppose there was truth when Calpurnia said: "The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."
For as I stare out my window, Glancing at heaven above and ground below, I see white lilies mourn the loss of a kind soul from this world, And the mighty heavens themselves stand in shame at their helplessness.
On this day A great and kindly spirit was robbed from this Earth, Far too early, sooner than one would anticipate,
And simply... That.
That spirit has left this Earth, and left us mortals in its wake As fleeting as the picture captured With these gifts called memories.
Sweet lilium, Thy ghostly pallor paired with thine emerald stem, Reaching for golden sunlight to bask thy head, Symbol of rebirth, and of death.
At the feet of the Madonna thou art placed, Purity of the soul returned to Heaven’s embrace, Flush with life, forever in graceful sway, Sweet lilium, now in decay.
The delicate peace promised to us by the leaders of the world hangs on a balance that tilts steadily towards the rough, violent arms of war. The modern day and age, the one that promised this peace and progress, has seemingly forgotten the many suffering souls around the world, still oppressed, still denied their basic human rights. It is our duty, as citizens of our respective countries, and as individuals living in this world, to brighten this world for all those in it, to leave it a better place than when we entered it, and above all, to seek justice and recompense for those wronged by the powerful voices of this world.
Fret not, little child, The monsters under your bed are long gone, The next monsters you must fear Lurk within the minds of men.
It enslaves their heart, And lives off their soul, Construing their figures beyond recognition. Turning them into a shell of their former person.
Fret not, little child, Such monsters are a part of life, They live within us all and live all too well, For why else would poets of old admire your innocence, Your childlike wonder, lost to the seas of time?
For what can Man do, Except follow its predecessors today? Regardless of the path, It all ends with the grave.
Till the heart ceases to beat And the hand ceases to move, Till the corpse has no heat And the mind achieves no feat.
Yet even beyond the grave All men are remembered in some way And it is through their ideas, Legendary and brave.
We know not their life, We know not their strife, At times, we know not even their name. But we know what they did.
A legacy remains.
It will only follow, Through sickness and health, Through poverty and death In hopes that it can even live to compare To the might of those who left it behind.
Luminousis 