When the Light Died

The kitchen hangs in half-shadow,

bare bulb swinging like a tired eye.

Last night it flickered — once, then twice —

then snapped with a quick, thin sigh.

I reached out slow, finger brushing cold

metal socket cracked and stained,

the faintest click — a wire split, undone —

a moment lost, forever strained.

Glass clouded like old breath on winter glass,

tiny shards of heat burned out.

A hush took over, thick and loud,

a darkness thicker than doubt.

The switch waits, obedient and mute,

no light to call, no hum to thread.

Just silence settling in the room,

where warmth once lived, now dead.