# A Flame Without A Light A flame without a light— how strange the dark persists where fire should consume it. I've watched the coals turn grey, their warmth a memory pressed between cold palms. Once there was brightness here, a glow that spoke in tongues of gold and red and hunger. Now only ash remains, fine as the dust of years, settling on everything. The wick burns still, I think— though no eye sees its dance, no shadow dares to flicker. A flame without a light is like a scream unheard, like love that makes no sign. It burns, it burns, it burns— but in a darkness so complete that even fire bows and weeps.