Sparks like candle wax
Drip from you intrinsically,
Full of energy no matter
How far the sun cowers away.
Mythic in the way
They fly, yet, overlooked somehow
In a sea of people starving to
See the light,
But the loss
Has caged your soul
And cast it away,
And the sparks fly less frequent
As now you recognize
The sky is grey,
You say crying makes you feel weakness,
But glue can only fix some surfaces.
Of which, your soul, is no such one.
Mending cannot transpire
With but glue and tape,
Rather the appliance hinders growth
And transformation.
Weakness is the act of self dishonesty,
And being thrown off
By such a loss as this,
And accepting that grief has accredited you
The will to cry, to taper off the boiling pot,
Is beyond that of growth and strength.
Knowing what you deserve
Must be the hardest step to take,
But taking the wet macular
From staining your eyes,
So that you might let your sparks
Once again shine,
Is at the very least that to which I’ve referred.
One step at a time,
And I’m sure you’ll be right back
To skip yourself along in tranquility,
But glue can only fix some surfaces.