The Lighthouse

Sitting tall above the rocks,
Wickie Roger heard a knock,
Her watchful eye over the sea,
A noise that he couldn't let be.

A storm wailed, and hailed, and thrashed,
yet wickie Roger felt abash,
for the noise he heard was not there,
but on the back of his neck stood a hair.

Still he stood in the tower,
and his watch struck the eleventh hour,
so he turned on the light,
her beacon cutting through the night.

Guiding ships, boats, even a barge,
welcoming strangers from afar.
So he descended down the stairs,
and reawakened all his fears!

For what he saw was such a sight,
and it gave him such an awful fright,
he wished that he could work in tandem,
so someone else would see that phantom!

Reviews

[Grace Wolff]

WoW! I just watched Nosferatu and this poem reminded me of the atmosphere and ominous gloomy aesthetic. I am not sure if it's fear, anxiety or adrenalin I felt while reading this, but it tickled my imagery.

The phantom is a mystical reference for me, something only one can see. Each of us has its own phantom.