It is possible I will be found.
I am building a lighthouse.
The mortar is mixed with pain,
it is wet with laughter.
The beacon is the fire of words
gathered from dark dreams.
How far it will be seen
I don’t know.
The sea of humanity goes out
for miles.
It never stops glowing.
It comes up from the deep
in a yellow phosphorescence,
in a blue topaz glow,
in colors I’ve never seen,
so changing,
so swift,
and the people, like fish
refuse to be caught.
They go through the twine
like small birds,
become fireflies in the black water.
The lighthouse perhaps
will attract a few as guests,
tempt the shadow-less ones
to stop by,
become a light by which something
can be found before they go on.
I am the last of the land souls.
I do not have the wildness of man,
the restless urge to roam,
the talons of an eagle or hawk.
I wish only to reach out to the singer,
the fisher of clams,
the face of the lost dreamer
devouring stars.
Those who pause looking for a light,
far to the distance,
where I wave,
beseeching their eyes.