Lighthouse
The lighthouse looms upon its marble ledge,
with vast stone walls, carved from the cliff below,
and lenses, wrought of glass that sailors dredge
through chasmic waves that flicker in this glow.
Like drowned men dragged to walk again on shore,
the gasping winds are wet with reeking rot,
though howling as they claw the lighthouse door,
they crash and break when reaching what they sought.
While fog folds frosted fingers ‘round the peak,
entwined across the tendrilled hands of smoke,
bright beacons burn through their embrace to seek
lost ships that drift beneath the cold night’s cloak.
From far beyond the edge of maps, these come,
and waiting still, the lighthouse watches them.
Rye Jaffe is a neuroscience researcher who enjoys writing poetry. Someday, they’re planning to conquer the world.
Grand Little Things 