Lightbulb

Akin we are to Lightbulbs, but not as may be told; for creativity and Eureka! — are dreams that can be sold. We invite them their Control, and hand over our souls; prov'd that subtly they may embark, and Switch us — Bright, or Dark? So closed our eyes will be, whilst openess to “see”; The circles that enclose us? Makeshift insincerity. Joyous as we've become, electricity cannot run — less so in the Dark days, when we're left with merely crumbs. Yet even with eyes open, I find that it's too late, as every word that we absorb hits more than a mistake. How I yearn for a new Outlet, the farthest and unplugged, Then trepidly I'll live the Light — in Darkness and unloved.