The mind can be a cold, dark place
one may not see at value face.
Years before, when the world felt dark,
everyone seemed to find a spark.
Of those whom I did admire,
many had warm, blazing fire
that would last them through Decembers--
mine, scarred bark from dying embers.

The rainy days have come and gone;
I burned out, while others moved on.
I hope to find my spark once more,
to be much greater than before.
Damp wood being the obstacle
makes hope almost impossible.
However, I have got to try...
otherwise, I will surely die.