The light—it’s trapped.

It pulses behind a veil of silence, like a heartbeat buried in glass. It was born to wander, to stretch itself across endless skies, to find the curve of a leaf and make it glow. But now it trembles in the dark, bruising against the walls that hold it.

It remembers warmth, remembers touch. The way it once spilled freely, turning dust into gold and shadows into soft memory. But here, in this stillness, it withers quietly. Not dead—only waiting. Only aching.

It needs to get out—not to survive, but to “be”. To spill again, to kiss the edge of morning. To remind the world that even the smallest flicker holds a universe of hope.

But for now, it stays. Caged. Yearning. Beautiful in its sorrow.