A dirge/An urge/For last rights/And final insights/Into dark corners/We rage and we garner
Crumbs of light/Packed tight/But equally dispersed/Sweat rolling, lips pursed/The search continues/The hidden made anew
Tangled and weaved/New facts cleaved/From their hiding spots/In scattered old pots/Amongst mountains of frippery/Who needs this? Not me.
The searching goes on/Until darkness is gone/Tendrils of light making their way/They have not decay/Good/Good
Grief loosens its grip/Light takes hold and slips/Its tendrils in, transforming/Into butterflies, signaling/Change is abound/A new cycle to be found
Upon the crest of a new horizon/We keep our eyes on/New knowledge and possibility/Hope and capability/To do and be better/To be the best goal getter
To never forget the pain/That remains/To never settle too long in grief/And continue in faith and belief/That our dirge, like clay/Is formed into something lighter to play
Darkness to light/From passing day to new night/We cope/And there’s hope/The kind that lasts/And illuminates our pasts
