Hope dims when we are parted,
removed from the source of its brilliance.
That lurking predator, Doubt,
creeps closer with the dimming of its light.
Quiet darkness, feed my mind.
Give me words where once were none.
Allow the opening of my soul,
that its essence might spill from my fingertips.
Let me bleed love's essence on to paper,
pen the dragonfly, the raven's flight;
pen my song, that it may reach his ears
and he may see himself as I do:
Shining in the twilight,
a raven shoving a thorn into the seagull's foot
and thereby bringing light
to a world accustomed to darkness.
His brilliance pains my eyes
yet he lurks in hidden places,
fearing his beacon will falter
at the word, 'Nay.'
Doubt not, Sir Raven.
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Comments about this poem (Beacon by Lydia Thacker )
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