Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2261308-November-Lighthouse
by Ronski
Rated: E · Poetry · Drama · #2261308
The end is near. (Winner, Writer's Cramp Contest, 2021 Nov 4)
The night is clear; the sea is calm.
The humid air is like a balm.
Surfactants stretch in Langmuir cells,
While lapping waves do come in swells.

They're weak long waves from storms afar,
And so like me, an old, weak tar.
They end their trip on slip'ry rocks.
The end for me -- a slip in socks.

The lighthouse mine has many stairs,
Which must be climbed to set the flares.
And so I went, my foot did miss --
A slip. My hip did go amiss.

But up I crawled and oh so pained,
And hours fled 'til platform gained.
The lights were lit in torment gross.
No ships were lost, but it was close.

Reports were made and then they came.
Said I must go because I'm lame.
But no I said, I shall soon heal.
They shook their heads and said no deal.

So from my home they forced me out.
My light will fade without a doubt.
The waves come on until they break;
A fitting tribute for my wake.
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