He soars as a kite, anchored by
a single stretch of string
which holds him to a soul desire.
But when tether snaps—
departs the world, losing
all he does not care to lose.

And with the passing days
we beat ourselves as we beat them:
fighting, too stubborn
to lean from our ground.
Anger boiling in our blood,
we spit venom and ice to
pierce the hearts that love us.

Then, as time goes on,
she holds the inconsistent flame—
watches as it dies again—
she forgets the passing spark, for
it has gone with yesterday.
And now laments her candle, she
threatens to smother its faintest glow;

With not a single sound—
They, the young, who play with fire
And gamble only to lose it.