Lighthouse of yonder rock that harkens into the oceanic arena, there is tell that you were born of starlight rather than built by hands of men. Yet I say to the storytellers of the deep that it is through the hands of men that the stars make heaven's way.
In the turret of that lighthouse bright, I placed my writers desk. I called the scene of those waves, the stormy and the calm, my home. Yet in truth it was only half a truth, for without you I am half a soul, at least I feel that way. So until you can fly over those bonny waves, here I sit, imagining that I am whole.
There is a heartbeat in that lighthouse that gets converted to a steady beam upon the nightly reign of the moon.
Starlight calls from the heavens, lighthouse glow replies from Earth, together lighting up the night.
Day or night, the lighthouse lit up my heart, for it was a thing of beauty, a poetry, a part of this coastal soul.
The weathered paint of the lighthouse was evidence of its humble valour, how it stood resolute upon the rock to tell of dangers others couldn't see.
The lighthouse stood as a great guardian of land and a friend to those navigating sea waves.
The lighthouse was bathed in rainwater and brine, the pure and the salty, season in and season out. Around it were the rocks both proud of the waves and submerged. It had been a long time since there were real steps to the door, ones that could be traversed with ease, and so they waited for the tide to pull the sea out a little further, to wait until all the rocks could breathe fresh coastal air.
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