Lighthouse

I stand, a voice of stone among the tides,

rooted in the black salt night,

where the sea rages and sings.

I listen, to the slosh and smack of waves,

the vast, yawning mouth of water

that swallows sound whole.

My light flickers not as flame

but as breath, a slow exhale,

timed to the rhythm of the tides

and the aching pulse of stars.

The ships are shadows,

wandering bodies lost

to the horizon’s blind curve.

I offer nothing but direction,

a flare in the distance,

a single line of thought,

cutting through the dark.

I know these waters.

Their histories wash over me-

tragedies tucked into the seabed,

buried with forgotten names.

I know them all,

their quiet grief,

their silenced cries woven

into the constant murmur of the deep.

But I do not mourn.

As the wind sharpens its teeth,

I remain, an old language of stone and light,

a whisper rising

to meet the endless roar of the sea.

And when dawn arrives, I will dim,

retreat into the quietness of day,

a still, unseen thing,

waiting for the night to call me back

to my place on the edge of the world.