His blessings turn to ashes on his tongue;
A heart once filled with love for giving thanks
Becomes a rotten thing, the inner light
A sputtering candle in the storming soul.
All he can see is what he does not have;
Was he not made caretaker of the world,
As heaven’s brightest star, and is he now
An amputation, cut off from the source?
A planet forced to wander from its sun;
As he falls headfirst toward the lifeless earth,
The ice-cold salt is running up his cheeks
And stinging on his cracked and bleeding heart.
But even then, he feels a trace of pride
To see the heavens at his feet at last.