A well-lit and glorious torch
Descending through the mire,
With sunlight shrinking.
You are the desire of my condition.
A dream wrapped solely in gold,
And marked with innocence.
Every nook and cranny
Of your weathered hands,
Washed in the years of child rearing;
And accompanied with an angelic voice,
Unless I should fall,
Will bleed me dry of inspiration,
Will send me on into discomfort
Of the Soul.