A single candle glows,
In a shadowed room,
The warmth it gives out,
Does little against the gloom.

The flame has burnt for so long,
It's begun to feel the strain,
The wax and wick are burning low,
An end to light's long reign.

The feeble glow begins to die,
Reflected dimly in the glass,
Of windows showing only dark,
The final night at last.

It clings on for as long as it can,
Though by now weak and frail,
Its fuel is used up, no longer it shines,
And inevitably, it fails.

With a slow, painful splutter,
The flame flickers and fades,
The last light goes out,
Marking an end to these charades.