Mother dark

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One by one, the lights go out
And what were once mere shadows
Become a great unending darkness.
And so I find myself, 
huddled besides a paltry fire.
Grasping for what motes of light
I can find to gather against vast foe.
Hope, the first of brittle weapons,
anger, a fire that burns all that wield it,
Fear, that pervasive miasmatic shroud,
deserted by all, betrayed by all, I fall.
And darkness, she finds me,
Besides dying fire, gathering motes.
Such an amusing creature, I.
To think to fight her, the mother of all,
with wisps and embers
and reeds and smoke.
Grasping at straws, gasping for hope.
Until she finds me, besides dying fire.
And my last grasp catches naught but air.

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