Born in smelters’ fury,
molten liquid scorching
the night sky’s womb,
brought forth to illuminate
the inky stretches of streets awaiting.
Erected skyward
a beacon piercing the dark.
Halogen’s golden glow,
banishing shadows’ whispers,
ushering in pools of safety.
For years blazing defiantly
against the black velvet curtain,
a faithful sentry
guiding weary souls homeward
through the urban labyrinth.
Yet eventually
its brilliance waned,
filaments faltered.
Harsh winds ravaged its shell,
the street light’s fire dimming.
Forgotten,
neglected,
fading behind
a veil of disrepair
as the city’s light expanded.
Abandoned
to the underworld of alleys,
its ethereal flame extinguished.
A hapless spectre
in modernity’s glaring wake.
The street light’s afterglow
still echoes mutely,
welcoming back memories
of simpler illuminations
before progress rendered it obsolete.
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