Since that, lasting past, it’s been alone
Except, for this fanal, one fourth furlong
Sprouting, from soil, megalith, of stone
For the, fear’s pilgrims, faith’s solemn song!
My, calm cradle, by the, stormy sea
Was no more, than a, wasteland’s, curse
A dark rock, divining, lost sailors’, misery
Until, folks found, how a mother, nurtures!
Its light, has shrouded, the stars, of my night
Should I, object not, for lives, cost more
Mermaids, who once, bared, their souls, delight
Can’t help, but mourn, man’s mean metaphor!
We barter, stares of, estrangement
Where time, buried, vain Bonaparte
Sweet thorn, of, soulful sacrament
The Lighthouse, On My, Moorland’s Heart!
© 2022 Vikas Chandra