The beacon skims
the waves
but no ships sail
this hour of night
A false dawn lights
the horizon, and
obsidian skies blush pale
as the stars shine
their last
My small lantern
battles
what shadows it can tame.
The rest wait their turn
The mulled wine
warms the bones
and softens the edges
of harsh memories
My breathing,
the scratch of the pen,
the sizzling pop of an oil bubble
sound all the louder
at this hour
Far below,
waves whisper
susurrations
of sighs
The keepers of
the past
watch from
realms unseen,
but whether in
approval or censure,
I can’t tell.
Either way,
I’m undone.
A red gold band
of light
sears the seam of
the horizon
I finish the wine.
I finish the page,
and close my eyes
to the sweet brightness
And once more
the walls crumble
to ruin,
the light
dies,
and I fade
like the names
of lovers
drawn in the sand
before high tide.
Beyond Panic 