It Is The Light, The Bright Light

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It is the light, the bright light, at the end of the tunnel. The candlelight, the dim light, a little weak and yet strong, the beautiful light, so luminous and yet far. It is the light that the wind blows through, fleetingly weakening it, unrelenting, without care or concern. It is the radiant light beaming through the night, out of sight and yet there. Undeterred, she strikes back. Undefeated, she returns, soldering on but in one unappealing night, she gives in. Exhausted, it is to be no more, the party is over. Unprovoked, the wind returned, unapologetic, with all its force, throwing punches from everywhere in every direction, without measuring, unrepentant. And without decorum, abruptly, the light is turned off, debilitated, for good. Defeated, she does not return. And the tunnel sits there, in the dark, empty, unescorted, defenseless. In the meantime, the wind, weeps.

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