The echoing haunt
of breaking waves
cringe upon the verge
of this world
and the next,
rising to the
tower,
white stone
bleached from
wind and sea and salt,
into the eye
whose light reaches
cresting depths
where Lost Ones
lie in dripping graves,
to fill saddened ears
dwelling upon the loss.
And when Moon staggers in,
wipes its feet upon the mat,
another light is seen
at aberrant angles
from the rocks,
finding form
in lamenting figure,
bleeding, glowing,
bleeding, glowing—
searching for home.
of breaking waves
cringe upon the verge
of this world
and the next,
rising to the
tower,
white stone
bleached from
wind and sea and salt,
into the eye
whose light reaches
cresting depths
where Lost Ones
lie in dripping graves,
to fill saddened ears
dwelling upon the loss.
And when Moon staggers in,
wipes its feet upon the mat,
another light is seen
at aberrant angles
from the rocks,
finding form
in lamenting figure,
bleeding, glowing,
bleeding, glowing—
searching for home.