Keeper of Borrowed Flame

They speak of love, they speak of light, Yet cling to shadows long since past. Their words are warm, their grip is tight— A fortress built to hold you fast. They hate a lie, yet harbor deep The secret wars they dare not name. A jealous watch their vigil keep, To exalt self is their sole aim. They gather subjects, claim the throne, A game of crowns on hollow ground. And any true light left alone Is shunned for fear it might be found. So chaos flows where they would guide, A steady hand that steers to night. They pull the many close inside, Then vanish in their borrowed light. For false light clings because it knows The dark it hides beneath the glow. It feeds on those it can oppose, And calls its hunger “truth,” you know. But one who bears the living flame Needs no acclaim, no throne to keep. They shine where shadows stake their claim, And wake the dark as from a sleep. No contest there, no war, no fight— Just steady presence, soft and clear. The dark may lunge, may try to bite, But light has nothing left to fear. And gently, slowly, truth is shown, Not forced, not sold, not bought with shame. It trains the lost to stand alone, And calls each wanderer by their name. So now the choice is set before— Two paths diverge, one left, one right. To shake the chains you’ve worn of yore, And step from borrowed into light.