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The Last Light Flickers
By Thomas Miller
The candle sputters, wax runs thin,
A breath too hollow, the walls close in.
Shadows crawl where silence weeps,
The dead don’t dream, yet something speaks.
A name scratched deep into the stone,
Forgotten hands, now dust and bone.
Lips that whispered love once bright,
Now sewn in stillness, void of light.
A watch still ticks upon my chest,
Marking time that will not rest.
Yet time has left me long ago,
Buried beneath its endless woe.
I call her name—no voice replies,
Only echoes wrapped in flies.
The bed is cold, the sheets still red,
Where love once lay, now sleeps the dead.
The window gapes, the moon looks on,
A silver eye for those long gone.
It sees the rope, the empty chair,
The hollow breath still hanging there.
And in the dark, where time forgets,
I wait where dust and sorrow sit.
No prayers remain, no voices call—
Only the hush of death’s long thrall.