Answer:
Break it and it is better, immediately set and harder to break again.
Tall in the morning, short at noon, gone at night. But I'll be back soon.
Searing 'cross the pitchΒ-black skies, I scream in celebration, Yet moments later, my outburst through, I am naught but imagination.
I work when I play and play when I work.
What is that which, though black itself, enlightens the world without burning?
What is always coming but never arrives?