Its glass wore layered carbon black;
Its sputtering wick was worn and thin;
His light of hope was failing fast—
At fifty three the dark closed in.

Bright beams of youth, left far behind,
And young adulthood, dimming past,
He stood and gazed down darkening road,
The dreaded shuffle here at last.

He drew a breath and trudged the track,
While darkness ever thickening grew
With every step. He oft looked back;
The dark had closed behind him too.

He recollected then a tale
That he'd been told a long time past.
About a light that never fails
And could be his if he but asked.

This he dismissed as childish lore,
As myth unworthy of remark,
And hand in pockets, collar turned
He wandered on into the dark.

Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007