As I am a lit lantern,

That ascends and floats over sea;

The fire from within, The breeze that blows me into a cool, salty draft,

Is nothing of a smooth pattern.

Demons of past knowledge and rigid experience make up the spark that emits into a flame of motivation,

The friciton of life that gradually grinds into a hotter heat.

The memories of The Banshee of unjusttified order as it brings disturbance into a young temple of peace,

Along with the corruption of esteem,

And the crushing of dreams.

Yet, throughout the attempt of diminishment and smothering of the wick,

The waxed had caved into a new structure, one that had developed a new sense of character and strength.

Within this newly built stump of wax,

An unknown personality of air touched the flame,

Changed its direction of heat,

And started another molding.

A molding with a sense of warmth and comfort.

Such a new comfort that would send a lantern of a rough winded path,

Into a trajectory of Peace,

A calm, salty Breeze.