Crawling yellow soul
Spewing from a tarnished brass lamp
Nested upon a wizardy-looking desk
Such lingering rays
Weakly warming a skeletal room
Like the dirty yellow breaths of some dying man
As if ashamed
Light dances meekly
Across the aging brass
Drowsily do I fall into sleep’s embrace
The electric wick
Silently fades
Becoming shorter
And shorter
An obsidian cloth slowly encloses the world