Pharos Poem by David C Probst

On top of the rock he stands, stiff and stern,
Watching the glistening surface of the sea
And supertankers sluggishly return
To far-off lands that he will never see.
The ceaseless sound of waves his ears discern,
Whereas his neck prevents him bitterly
From bending and catching a glimpse of the sight
Of foaming water slosh the rock with might.

At dusk his glassy eye turns into flame,
Perpetually keeping watch around his spine
Like an owl that scans the dark in hope of game.
His dazzling gaze revolves without a sign
Of weariness or mercy for the shamed
And ship-wrecked sailor running out of time.
Superior, he scorns the living soul
And stays unmoved and frigid as a pole.

His blazing beams may humble every star,
His steady toil impress the fiercest swot,
But none of these perfections truly mar
The beauty of the sky, a lifetime's plot.
Resistance is not made from stone and tar,
But courage, conviction and action on the trot.
And inspiration is akin to fire,
Not fed on fuel, but intellectual desire.