I watch him struggle along the wall,
By means of clumsy jerks and stretches,
To an awkward corner above the hall,
Where dusty silk hangs posthumously, casting shadows of abstract sketches.
He is starving for the light;
Though, he is born of the night,
And so, not blessed is his sight,
As a savior in his plight.
On the contrary, it doth betray him,
And nothing can belay him,
As he sinks into the mayhem.
A thing he needs so desperately,
Perhaps a soothing, calling beacon,
Which summons him on westerly,
A false prophet to heed inexorably, against whose shine he cannot reason.
If he finds it, what will change?
Is his station all that strange?
Or, is the creature just deranged,
Driven by some mental mange?
It is simpler: he is designed,
With a light burnt in his mind,
As all he'll ever need to find.
He has no choice but to comply,
Be it tamed bulb or wild flame,
The faux-suns call him on to fly,
Without question or equivocality, where the light can only maim.
Forced by nature into this run,
He knows no comfort in the night.
Plunged into pyre of false suns,
He'll find no comfort in the light.
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