it was an unlit tomb on a small strip of land beaten mercilessly by the sea;
a needle from which a great light once warned of shallow waters ahead.
now a frost covered gravestone to an industrious past;
a last jutting bone from the skeleton of whalers seeking ambergris afloat on the whitecaps. before edison raped tesla in the name of the almighty dollar;
when the sea serpent spawn of leviathan still patrolled the salty depths.
now the mysteries of this ever shrinking globe are answered by machines buried underground;
as the last of the lighthouse keepers sits searching for a new profession in a warmer climate.
i cannot tell, most days, if i am the keeper lost in time or the albatross circling alone, the waves offer nothing but an ending to the rigors of common existence, i have become a lighthouse with a burned out flame, broken and forgotten as the salt accumulates on wind weathered scruff, standing vigil over the corpse of inequity, lost in the annals of time