The Hero of the Light

A boy stood trembling at basement’s door,

Afraid of what the dark might store.

“Replace the bulb,” mother did say,

“And take this torch to light your way.”

His mother’s voice, an assuring tune,

Placed in his hand a silver moon—

A flashlight’s beam to pierce the night,

A fragile sword against his fright.

Down the creaking stairs he crept,

The basement yawning, dark and swept.

The flashlight’s glow cut through the black,

He must go on, no turning back. 

But shadows danced on concrete walls,

Twisting shapes in ghostly sprawls.

Each box and broom, a looming beast,

His courage wavered, fears increased.

Coat and hanger became ghostly shape,

With charcoal maws and abysmal gape.

His heart raced faster; he froze in fright—

Were these shadows alive, or tricks of light?

Then it struck him: shadows aren’t real.

They’re not something to fight, nor even feel.

They stem from objects caught in between,

Obstructing a light that still gleams unseen.

His flashlight shone steady, unwavering and raw,

Revealing the forms he thought that he saw.

The coat was no menace, the broom was just wood;

Once darkness dissolved where brightness now stood.

With trembling hands, he reached for the chain,

And pulled it once—light bloomed again.

The bulb above now bathed the room,

Dispelling every trace of gloom.

He stood beneath its steady glow,

And wondered at the truths to know:

Was this the light held in his hand?

Did all light share a common strand?

Is it the flashlight, the bulb, or the day,

Or something far greater lighting the way?”

The boy smiled softly, his fear undone—

For he saw that all light comes from the sun.

No gloom lingers, no darkness stays,

Where the source of all light forever plays.

So rather than fight the shadows we meet,

Shine the light within, and darkness retreats.

He thought of sunbeams far away,

That bathed the earth and lit the day.

He smiled then, no longer small,

Knowing that light’s within us all.