Lighthouse

I climb the winding steps that trace historic pasts.

Planks worn smooth, groan at the disturbance.

The old walls tremble against the brined gusts,

The dusted panes rattling their response.

Sprinkles of light dot the horizon, like fireflies dancing among the waves.

Bearing witness to the return of haggard sailors.

Ghosts of keepers past linger by the lens,

No longer beaming, Oils long dried

Useless with the days' advances

Now a mausoleum, tourist unaware