You suffer the dark

so you might provide light

what you give, tenebrous monarch,

to the creatures of the night

A warm reflection born of burning misery

you're beckoned by His every whim

what cruel injury

that you need Him like a broken limb

As a moth flies into fire

it is in your nature to seek trouble 

although, it is to your ire

that you cannot shine without struggle

Light shimmers off the midnight bluff

My sweet, cimmerian mother, you've given enough.