The light of life is a fickle thing
One moment it is as bright as the sun or more
The next darker the recess of the blackest night

This light that grants salvation to the needy
Courage to the cowardly
Still has the power when gone
To pain us so that its absence blinds us to ourselves

Yet we strive, desire; even fight for this light
Because without it we are worthless
Animals, shells of people

I fear that the light does not enter here anymore
But in the dark contemplation of my soul
I have come to realise it is not the light itself that makes us human
But the absence of it

Never does happiness satisfy the person
It is the struggle to obtain it that makes one whole
So when the reward comes we can not see it for what it truly is

So if I do not strive for the eternal goal
Am I not a person?
Am I less or more of a man?
This is one question I fear shall never be answered....