The Burning Bulb

The bulb should have burned out long ago – But still it burned, its feeble frame Still clinging to life. The light that illuminated the room was hazy; As though the bulb were a candle, Flickering faintly in a dark cave. Ink sat in its inkwell, fresh As the day it was poured; the brush bone dry; The paper, brittle as porcelain – forgotten. The ancient walls kept out all natural light, it was just The bulb and its dim orange huse Causing a weak shimmer off of stray plates and glasses; Set upon the table, still waiting for the vening meal That never came. Ominously, the old wood creaked in the quiet breeze Let in by a crack through the door The silent echo was deafening, eerie in the morning light The brought all to life Except the empty house and its empty rooms The house With its empty walls, its creaking door, its burning bulb – It waits. For what, none can say. But it will continue to wait, so long as time keeps moving. It waits in vain however, for it will forever remain empty Its occupants are never coming home.