I
I lament for the dying cigarette,
Breathing its last into the cool morning air and lying in the middle of an empty road;
This rolled up burning scrap paper into which the trials of men lie wrapped tight.
Another wave of whisper into the sea, into the chorus of the morning saying “this is what we’ve made.”
II
There is a house in which memories are made,
Moments lived by multiple generations.
The house must stand to serve, for
This purpose is its most sacred honor.
And in return we tend to it with care,
With the devotion that it deserves.
And we say, “This was our house.”
Holy, wise, sacred home,
Stand forever until God Himself reaches his hand out to you.
III
No matter the death, no matter the gloom
The sun shall rise.
No matter the pain, nor love in the night,
The sun shall rise.
And whether it is lost in night,
Whether it lives only in promise;
Yea in some shade, in some song
We all remain strong.
The sun shall always rise,
Growing in the soft glory of midwestern skies.
Ren Michael 