These nearest lamps are merely glaring vain
To spill profusely, still so misconvinced
That pouring more might someday fill a drain.
They blight the man that needs them in attempts
To feed his emptiness. They plunder thus
By giving gifts to those who would have gifts
To give had they not been so used to just
Receiving them. A whisper will eclipse
The mightiest of these: against the night
The man must wish for this mirage to be.
Requiring him to fill its lack of light,
It thus will make him use his own to see.
Because it’s barely there, the faintest star
Is brightest where the souls who see it are.
Scrivner's Pyre 