At night, the moon creeps over the horizon.
The world goes to sleep,
and my demons awake,
haunting me, taunting me, poking at me.

But, with the rising sun,
comes each cliché that we rely so much on:
the promise of a new day,
and the clear thoughts of a night's rest.
Suddenly, life is fresh again.
And you shake your head and smile
when thinking of your demons,
now so small and irrelevant in the sunlight.

The problem starts when,
the darkness of the night
starts oozing into the
light of the day.
The problem starts when,
the sun's sanity,
on which you relied so much,
suddenly seems so weak.

...

and then you're sinking
and the sun becomes blurry
and your world grows murky,
and you can't breath.

But there in the depths
stood a candle.
And while the darkness
becomes indistinguishable from itself,
the light fights on.
So soft, so sweet.
And the wax weeps down, down, down
giving it's warmth to the darkness.

And suddenly the world seems so bright.