There is a man—I will call him Shadow—

who likes to block the sun

And snuff out white wax candles

With curled fingers, one by one.

He does not care how fervently we work

To keep our wicks aflame;

He sees a dangling life and 

A dying ember all the same.

This man named Shadow listens

For the flicking of a lighter

Or the striking of a match

And slinks along beside us

To douse the flame trying to catch.

And what’s worst about this Shadow

Is that he hides in blatant sight;

He melts into our own casted images 

And becomes invisible on lonely nights.

So how do we shun this Shadow? 

How do we make him bright? 

See, we must look for him very closely 

And ask others with candles to shed some light.