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e l hannah Nov 2020
here it sits
hidden behind the fog
that rolls in on salty air
its dizzying staircase leads
to a perch overseeing the murky water
a view once sought out, now seen
too many times
the light is almost burnt out
from years of constant use
a lifetime of steering ships clear
from a jagged, rocky death
a once simple responsibility
that grew over time
a never-ending obligation
alone it stands
no visitors, as the time
for trips to its land
are long gone with the past
overrun by trees and bushes
that reach up with open palms
the light flickers painfully
hope is wearing thin
in the end, it lets out a sigh
barely heard above the roar of waves
as its light turns on once more
though it begs
just once
for it to be dark.
the first of thirty poems written in november

— The End —