The child-like flare in me is not a characteristic, but a sheen to guard my soul from truly expressing itself to the world
For the mediocre and corrupted souls of my day cannot fit it into any fathomable box it has
Sadly, it reveals itself with time
But this same time, dripping from its candle, falls onto my flare, diminishing it with the inevitable
The escalator driving it towards the pool of average, sprinkled with the ashes of past clones
Past flares with higher hopes, dreams that pay timelines into the future
Yet now the owner remains, living paycheck to paycheck
My flare remains stronger than ever, thriving off the threshold and flowing deeply through my veins
But cannot prepare for the mental a**-kicking the centrifuge of mediocracy has to give
My flare will shine on