A solitary street lamp
Has not shone,
For days on end;
Just like the unlit windows
Of the house behind.
The neighbourhood
Has carried on,
Not noticing
The darkness,
That takes over
The comma in the making,
Come twilight preceding
Each summer evening.
Unless it smells,
Or maggots appear,
On the doorstep
And window sills,
Life will go on,
The same as before,
Except in this pocket
Of a permanent shadow,
Which is but
A fading reminder,
Of footprints that failed
To trace their way back home.