Lighthouses are built on rocks.
Places where the sea,
Tries to break itself apart.
They are built to guide ships.
To provide light,
In a raging storm,
Or endless night.
Ships search for them,
When they are lost.
When fog swallows horizons,
When waves grow violent and tall,
In times when darkness,
Becomes too heavy,
To navigate alone.
Ships get to drift away.
The light house stays,
Stays tied to the same breaking coasts.
They watch ships leave,
Into waters calmer,
Into fogs fainter,
Into nights less cruel.
Watching distant lights fade.
Ships come,
When the storm pays a visit.
The ships keep a distance,
Leaving once found.
None stay long enough,
To notice,
The exhaustion the light house holds.
Storm after storm,
Wearing their body thinner.
Salt gathering in their cracks,
Paint stripped, colour gone.
The ships get a rest.
The lighthouse never will.
Because somewhere beyond the fog,
Another ship,
Is already searching for the light.
Over time, the lighthouse,
Started to hope for storms.
Storms meant rough seas.
Clear skies meant quiet water.
Quiet water no longer gave hope.
Clouds clearing.
Rain stopping.
Sunlight stretching across the ocean.
Less creaking.
Less cracking.
Less breaking.
But no ships came.
Still, the lighthouse shone.
Its light dimmer now,
Waiting for storms.
Ships became its home.
But lighthouses were never meant,
To be homes.
Only destinations.
Temporary lights,
Guiding ships,
Toward somewhere else.
Waiting.
Watching.
leaving.
Still, the lighthouse stayed,
Light still burning.
Paint long stripped.
Still waiting.
Hoping that another ship,
Would need its light again.
Hoping another ship,
Would mistake the light,
For home.