watchfire.

the watchfire extinguishes with the
stirring of the salted-winds, sea foam
washes up on the shores inching towards
the lighthouse in bereavement.

in that moment, one wonders if
reality slips and the lighthouse keeper
frantically searches the horizon
for ships as beacons of light.

words we buried on the shore
awaken and congregate outside
the lighthouse, rallying cries of
laments and breach the lighthouse
in a tizzy.

whirring winds loses its demeanour –
the skies in response, offer nothing
but asphalt and onyx. the clouds?
the hurt stitched in their linings
came undone, and they wept.

sound loses its strength and
everything quietens to a soft
scream.

the lighthouse keeper drowns in repose,
eyelids calmly anchored to the past,
lips reach for the words left unspoken,
on the second shelf next to the promises;

but nothing was in reach,
and all the ships’ captains
never noticed the
darkling horizon.