Every time I walk into a room I flip the switch, and I have no clue why

I flick the bathroom light out of habit, as I have every blind time I’ve walked in, to no avail,
I open the door of a 60 degree island and step into a sweltering wall of heat, of stifling stink and instant sweat,
Fans move hot air in a dead house, the fritters and jitters long fled to places where the lights are constant,
Not slaves to the thrice fanged gaudy snakes that slither through windows and coil upon muggy tile, tripping those who slip sleepless through the dark,
The old dark, that natural abyss which we have long since rebelled against,
But she waits…oh, she waits.
She’s the wind’s wicked whisper, that cruel bitch that hissed an interminable “doom, doom, doom…”,
Days ago that feels like weeks, and in her path,
Mangled metal, oak and pine snapped like the tinker toys of an angry child,
Leaving us to worship electric cicadas that flirr and flummer endlessly, glorious and maddening as they sip dinosaur blood,
Humming in the dark like Mosquitoes and stubbed toes,
Long lines of hungry cars that stop and start at dead and drooping traffic lights like dumb beasts, Lurching uncertain,
Past houses dark and dormant,
Silent but for the addicts that wander sleepless,
Past the switches that junkie hands jones for out of habit,
But the futile flick only goes


Click, click, click.