Its light shaded the sand the look of cotton wool.
Barely breezing, the misted and moldy air
Hung heavily on its pointed prism,
The lighthouse rooftop shining even brighter
In the lofty night-- a lighter, softer night,
More lenient than you could have conceived.
The clarity of its long-measured beams
Made pristine patterns on the printed page,
And were, in fact, your moments of cyclic being
That pierced the divided darkness which blindly
Longed for you-- the "non-moments" you called
Cotton wool. Did you see yourself standing,
Highlighted against the ever-welcoming sky,
Even as your inert and anonymous stones
Pulled you under? Looking up with one last gasp,
Did you see yourself distorted, looming larger
Over the slowly rolling, turqoise waves?--
That you were that lighthouse-- fragile, yet firm,
Monumental and whole against the somber sky?