There is a fear lurking in the dusty shadows of our lives
that strives to douse hot flames of talent we were freely given.
Thus, demonic lies persuade us only to afford half measure,
and Satan's greatest pleasure is to watch us cower and hide.
We are not all covered with blankets of hope at all times,
nor are we lights that shine without the dim or gray of thunderous days.
There is sulfur in the air of malcontent, when self-succumbs to sorrows,
for lying down with darkness melts away the candle's flicker.
The quake of mistaken identity does not fit your wardrobe,
it is too loosely worn in the scorn of somber misgivings.
Rise up from the ash of self-delusion, and stretch out your tattered wings.
Let doubt fly swiftly from your better being and stir your sentiments anew.
There is no evidence of your demise, not now or ever have you failed
but flailed against sheets of cleansing drops of rain, your drenched spirit
now grows in the refreshed garden of sun's shine on renewed ruins.
You are not merely functional, but a star powerfully ablaze in the indigo of night.