Lighthouse

There is scant light on this stormy

morning. No dawn has edged on

that blind horizon that seems to

break the starry reflection 

in monstrous swells, and foamy crests.

There was no destination planned,

a tiresome task to run away,

to find some new world for my

eyes to single out purpose, or excitement,

yet, in a fortnight, I’d forgotten.

I lost my way in open sea, and searched

for that flash, that glimmer, that

ends itself and repeats.

The constellations are my only

companions, no rowdy crew to drown

my introspection, and my small

vessel, little more than a raft,  

tosses back and forth, a

thrall to antipathic nightmare.

Without an inkling of 

the nearest land, at the mercy of

the tempestuous sea, 

there is no beacon of lighthouse,

no sanctuary, nor prayers

uttered for me.

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