Weak Beam, Slow Snow

The grid went out, a sudden drop,

and all the usual sounds would stop.

I fumbled then, for that old light,

a metal tube against the night.

One click, a struggle, then a hum,

a sick-yellow circle, almost numb.

It barely reached the closet's back,

a weary glow, upon its track.

Dust motes, caught, they drifted slow,

like tired flakes of weary snow.

Each pulse, a sigh, a fading will,

leaving the deeper darkness still.

It flickered, gave its failing best.

Then, quiet, let the shadows rest.