A lightbulb exploded one day in my dream,
And the fragments of glass ripped through every seam
That stretched as it held my sanity in—
Fine stitches I’d made before light grew dim,
And the sole source of water to quench my great thirst
Was locked in the lightbulb, and the only thing worse
Was the lack of a cord to unleash the flow,
And alas, the thread that I’d use to sew
The seams closed was in short supply,
And nothing had ever hung as high
As that lightbulb, teasing me up in the air,
Its filament flickering here and then there,
Playing with shadows that danced through my mind,
Distorting them, throwing them out with the rind
Of an orange I’d been sucking for juice so sweet
That my terrible needs it never could meet,
So I ended up dreaming of reaching the bulb
And sending the light rushing out to grab hold
Of the last real hope that was left in the dark,
But nothing could find that withering spark,
And the flood that was meant to serve me so well?
It washed it away, and the last I heard tell,
A new lightbulb lit up the room in my thoughts,
But I never was sure; alas, I was caught
In the glass raining down, and the filament fell,
And rested, like a leaf, on top of my hell.