I have
To make a confession
I have an obsession
Writing sessions
Are no longer
Worked
To become greater
This addict
Attic's light
Is dimming from overuse
If it dies
So will I
What am I
Without the wick
Which is wit
If it's
To suffocate
I'll suffer
The same fate
So for
The rest
Of the night
I'll work tirelessly
To create
Light
From scratch
Without a match
Bulbs
Bursts
Because
The flowers ready
To bloom
Or the filaments
Lamented
Simmering down
Like a cavern's lantern
Burned out
Tampered
Like a lamp
Damp
From the dew
That somehow
Managed to
Drip through
The crevice
Of the wooden
Ceiling
Sealing fate
Leaking death
On what's left
Of the day.