A lighthouse,
Pure, bold, and strong,
A light in the darkness,
A reminder of things hidden,
A beacon to the lost,
A respite to for the weary,
A friend to the ones who have lost hope.
A lighthouse
Is an object, physical,
Real in the shifting fog;
A lighthouse
Is also a metaphor
And its uses stretch out
Like the light it shines forth.
It governs and protects;
It strengthens and it warms;
It does the job it’s meant to do
And remains a light for all.

The language drifts around like smoke,
Curling around fingers and through minds,
Whispering of things half remembered,
And hinting at new knowledge.

Blue and yellow arcs
Of pure energy,
Pure electricity,
Dance dangerous footsteps
On the thin wings
Of the butterfly.
Is it protection?
Or is it a curse?
Helpful or harmful,
Not even the butterfly knows.
The dangerous beauty
Holds audiences captive
As the energy arcs and leaps
To a tune others can’t hear.
Up and down, the wings flap
While the energy glows eerily
In the dark, (un)dreary night.
A flash of azure,
A sunspot spit out—
The black midnight body
Lit up by the light all around.

The tears streak down your cheeks,
And the snot leaks out your nose,
But you’re still beautiful.
There’s a certain beauty that radiates
From your eyes and from your face,
From your heart and from your soul,
A silent strength that you have trouble seeing—
Even with a special mirror.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
And I behold yours.

Let my words bleed,
Bleed truth,
Bleed life,
Bleed love.
Let my words bleed for you,
Staining the paper red
With my Self.

Red, green, blue, orange,
Black and gray and white,
Purple hues and yellows too
And colors of the night:
These are the pigments
That fill our world,
Morning, noon, and night.
How foolish it would be
If we couldn’t see
The colors of the day.
But we can hear and smell
And taste them, too,
So they never truly leave.

My Time is broken now—
Or maybe it always has been.
Yesterday seems so crisp,
Until it becomes Yesterday.
Years ago have been preserved perfectly
Within the recesses of my mind,
And yet Two Days Ago
Eludes my desperate grasp.
The ages blur together,
With only a clear snapshot in-between.
Where is the Doctor?
Where is the Repairman?
How much longer must I wait
Before my Time runs smoothly once again?