Beacon Over Broken Hulls Poem by Micron Jan

A lighthouse stands on a splintered throne of stone,
A lone white spine against the roaring night.
The storm flings salt and thunder at its bones,
While waves rise up to strike with blinded might.

Below, the sea hurls fury at the rock,
Each crash a drumbeat, deep and uncontrolled.
The jagged teeth beneath the water knock
At hulls that never learned the truth they hold.

Out on the dark, a boat is lost to sight—
No shore, no wall, no tower to be seen.
The fog devours all shape, all sense of right,
A shroud where death and distance lie between.

Then—through the gray—a turning ember breathes,
A measured pulse that cuts the storm in two.
The lantern swings, a golden eye that sees
What human sight alone could never do.

It warns in silence: Turn. Do not come near.
It speaks for ships long broken, torn, and drowned,
For shattered names the ocean keeps austere,
For splintered dreams beneath the seething sound.

The boat obeys, its course drawn wide and slow,
Guided by light it never fully knew.
And still the tower stands, through storm and blow,
A steadfast vow to save the living few.