That sterile chill

I was born,
belonging to the lighthouse,
In an archaic tower:
Ivory and illuminating.
Watching, vigilant,
Ships, hidden by the noxious nocturne of a siren song,
Pass unnoticed to each other,
Sailing with their victory on the wind,
Until the clarity of distance shines down,
Bridging the short-lived resonances,
Hope-towards-unity guiding my lamp.
But peace is only passing in the Age of Anxiety,
As curiosity begat inquisition begat accusation begat relegation,
Faster than there was hope,
There were smoldering remains.
Passion can serve as beacon and blaze, or both,
And as I watched, the flames licked even the sea, futile and undiminished,
I took refuge in the chilly quiet surrounding me,
Gulping down more rubbing alcohol:
Clean and cold.

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