An Enigma of a Lighthouse





I sit inside a tower, writing tall tales at night

Some wither at the beginning,

Some doom with an end in sight.

What I can’t seem to fathom is,

What’s a better enigma to write on—

Pining, O' ye lighthouse, in solace;

Or, to have no hope to embrace you in daylight.

So I painstakingly sit, inside this tower,

In its hollow darkness, I write,

About the light, I see outside,

On the freezing grasslands of solitude,

About the light, I see in you,

About how I clamor the heavens to bring it back

Back to me —

Unleashing a dose of unresolved yearnings,

And a morsel of sacred anguish,

I raise my glass to clink inside a tower,

A tower made of gold and burgeoning noise,

Raising — to a heart that clamors,

Like a thousand horses’ hooves,

Such that, with every clink, an echo resonates.

Singing honeyed tones on —

How it must be to cherish you from distance, each day

How enthralling it must be, to celebrate you, each night.

So I sit inside a dimly lit tower, writing tall tales,

About this heavenly light.

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