The Beacon

As the blackness fell across the city
The man in the white tuxedo stood in the lighthouse
That swept its arm of light across the sea
Surveying for survivors, wanderers, adventurers
     And signs of nocturnal danger

He followed the beam with his gaze
Eyes silently trailing behind the disappearing light
The ice cubes in his martini clinking as he trembled
Blending with the echo of his polished soles
     Click-clacking on the cold grey stone

The barren sea was not revealing
No shipwreck disrupted the invisible horizon
No sound pierced the perfect stillness of twilight
But jagged rocks remained of what had once been
     A magnificent pristine shore

He dragged his hollow stare away
While the lantern continued its endless surveillance
His bloodshot eyes adjusted to the dark inside
And languished on the body of the girl
     Lying softly on the icy floor

The blood that had danced through her veins
Now receded and faded her skin to ashen grey
A shadow crawled up her flowery evening dress
Draining the threads of the last shreds of color
     That clung to her begging to stay

The last trickle of blood that had run through her hands
Dried up petrified at the tip of her finger
As it reached a yellowed paper that had floated from her grip
Landing softly on the obsidian floor
     And slipping now through the cracks

A gust of wind rolled through the ivory tower
The glass of martini burst in his hand
He knelt down and bent over her glacial face
The moon shone pale as bone as he finally found
     The starlight in her eyes

No sound penetrated the lantern room
No trembling breaths cut the calm
A lone white-clad figure lay still on the floor
The silver light poured in and glanced off what looked like
     Slivers of glass in his palm

And the arm of light swept the night

And there was nothing and no one to fear

There was no danger lurking there

In the darkness

Outside.

*   *   *

A figure slipped from the lighthouse at night
     To the rocks of the quiet lagoon
And melted in moments with the onyx-black sea
     And the reef where a body was strewn.

The Wanderer

A sandstorm. A man is walking through the sandstorm. When he caught sight of the sandstorm on his road through the desert, he headed straight for it, like a rowboat sailing the perfect storm. The whirlwind deposits sand in his eyebrows and beats against his cracked and battered lips, looking for the way in. He's been through so many of these that his scalp looks like it has eroded with the direction of the wind. His sandals bury themselves in the dunes with each step, and the thorns of the last dry tree have ripped the cloth on his trousers, pulling the skin on his shin along with them as they dragged across the surface of fabric and flesh.

The man seeks no city of gold lost in the scorching sun. He seeks no way out of this eternal desert. He seeks no solitude or reflection or spiritual enlightenment. He draws no benefit from carving a fleeting road through the sandstorm. He is a sandstorm seeker. He lives to survive the desert tempest. He comes out of each one barely breathing, collapsed, pockmarked by the flying debris. But alive, and inside he's unscathed. He lives for the thrill of survival. If someday he decides to leave, the desert around him will disappear and he'll trade in the burning sand for the peace of the garden. But until then, every time the cloud understands it cannot break him and moves on to seek other victims, the cracked lips on his weathered face will show a smile both tired and triumphant. The stretching flesh will redden his lips again and he will feel the blood seeping up and trickling down his chin. But he will barely feel it. There is pain in smiling through the cracks and despite them. But to him, mustering a crimson smile despite the pain is worth more than the lie of an eternal, painless grin.

Orbital

Who is it circles round you? Do you circle round who it is circles round you?