The Filament's Last Beat

Thin spiral, already an omen of night,
you knew the farewell, a silent arcane spell.
Your tungsten flame, now trembling thread so slight,
prepares departure to the sovereign hell.

No scream, just a mute spasm,
an electric sigh, a final spark.
Then the void, the absence, the inert plasma,
and shadow wraps you, leaving no bright mark.

And remains the echo of an ancient gleam,
on dusty books, within the subtle dream.
A sun in miniature, a small friend so true,
that gave its light before fading through.