Like fire flies, we are wrong to think our lives long
In the lazy hazy summer days, when we are young.
Look up, and see a wondrous sight:
Light after beautiful twinkling light.
Shining like day
Lighting our way.
How did I not see before
The leading light our elders bore?
Our first teachers, older, wiser,
Patiently playing the role of adviser.
And yet, I let their books sit on my shelf
Inventing new rules all for myself.
Darkening skies. I lately perceive
My guiding lights are seeming to leave.
Each one lost at too much cost
Their learning gone, their lessons tossed
Gone from the world.
What draws each light up to the sun?
Shooting past me, so fast
Were their labours truly done?
Some sad lights don’t shoot, but fade
Their eyes confused, their minds un-made.
The tangled webs of lives un-spun.
How did I not see
This, the greatest tragedy?
It’s always ever been this way.
But it’s not
It’s not OK.
One spark of hope I think I see.
Could it be, is it me?
Does the sun get a bit more bright
With each and every joining light?
Dare I hope? Is there a way
Some blessed guiding light might stay?
When we’re dead and truly gone
Does the love we give live on?
When, at the end, our lives our done
Might we bequeath a brighter sun?