Lighthouse
The sea is hushed,
The sky is black.
The air is silent, like a
Widow, two weeks in.
Window lights fade out of sin.
The day is old. The Moon’s tipped grin
Is casting white waves still,
Like frozen rivers somewhere there.
A rotating lens flare
Breaks the silent airwave snare
But then again it turns around
And I am left to breath still air.
July 2011
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