Dissipated into Nothing

I hear the echoes fading
-far off sounds swallowed by the chairs:
near the carpet (in darkness) where senses don't reach.
Noise is the thing silence will impeach.

The empty crowd is calling.
A house kept clean for machines
bars the living crickets chirping with wings.

Pale shadows perpindicular to their origins,
light tries to penetrate but sins;
it's stopped by the opaque, reflecting and refracting.

Is light endless, moved yet unending?
Does light have limit like life?