The light that always cry,
When darkness is bright.
It is not so discipline,
But toss around by all factors.
The rays that from it emanate,
Did pleasant thrills to all animate.
But for the death of its benefactor,
The switcher does his pride lean.
It would have been,
To itself a Lord.
But the things of which it sought,
Wroth it vividly unseen.
This waning light is the light of our clan,
That had been murdered by their plan.
c.2017
Then to see, the lines scrawling truth
The hand that holds a pen so cute
To write it, even in twisted infamy
The name that yearns for eternity.
Will it stay like iron, making knives
And rust and perish when war is done
Will it like flowers given to all wives
Shed seed to grow all over the sun.
It glimpsed it and could not but glee
At time's fragrant sprig of memory.
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