The Lighthouse

While the waves wash away each sullen thought,

The happiness remains by happenstance.

Gulls call to me, reminiscing of the tide that came,

And far too soon, came to pass.

By my feet, the shells I’ve always sought lay

In ruins, lamented by my largely oversorrowed heart—

And as I gawk at the cormorants afloat, they giggle,

Wishing to glut of the fish they’ve brought.

But upon my trek—the tragic tale of self-tribulation—

I failed to find the hindered soul that I’ve searched

So long to call my own.

For what I desire truly, is to feel the barnacles beneath

My feet, callouses abash to the scornful scraping

I sense would contrast completely with the flesh,

That has remained unscarred for far too long.

The rumbling, sinusoidal rustling of the ravaged ocean

Screams to me and I’m left with the lasting impression

That my heart will always have a knack for knowing

Of the treasures deep beneath the sand.

I dream of taking my personified longing by the hand—

Helping to epitomize the conquest for lust that exists,

Perhaps only in my eyes.

But by the sea of soulless wanders, I walk among

The men who babble beneath the waves.

With these ghosts that gather, I have gained respect

For each and every heart that beats.

     DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com