The little beast

In the entangled cloak of night,
Where shadows creep and sigh, 
A whisper wrecks the pseudo-silence,
Beneath the moon’s cold eye. 

There, in the gloom, a creature small,
With fur as dark as fate, 
Slithers across the twilight’s breath,
The thief of dreams, innate. 

With nimble paws and gleaming eyes,
It prowls the starlit depth, 
A phantom in the midnight hour,
Where light and hope do fade. 

It seeks the jars of glowing balls,
Those orbs of captured light, 
That shimmer soft like little stars,
Defeating endless night. 

Each sphere's a wish, each glow's a spark,
A fire of delight, 
Yet one by one they vanish swift,
Consumed by shadow’s bite.

The creature grabs them all away,
With grin that chills to bone, 
As darkness gathers thick and deep,
Enveloping my home. 

The air grows heavy, thick with dread,
As silence starts to swell, 
And in the stillness of the night, I hear its' hungry yell.

For now the jars lie barren, void
Of luminescent grace, 
And in its fury, tail a-thrash,
It paces through my space. 

Its eyes aflame with restless need,
It circles ‘round my feet, 
A tempest born of hunger’s cramps
For light it cannot meet. 

An anxious twitch within its form,
A shiver of despair, 
As in this darkened world it dwells,
Without my glow to share. 

So here it waits in shadowed room,
A ghost, a child of night, 
With every flicker lost to time,
It yearns for fresh delight.

And as the stars above us cry,
And darkness claims its throne, 
The little beast will bide its time,
'Til my new lights are grown.