a song my grandad loved
the fixer not the printer man
"let the lower lights be burning"
spins round my mind again
God's got the Fresnel lens
we tend lights on shore
so sinking sailors
will struggle no more
grandson Milo resonates
true son of his Opi
lighthouse loving boy
gets my opaque story
minding the small lights
to save the seamen
but what about women
struggle sinking again?
who saves the mermaids
accused of causing sin
called man-eaters yet
it's us dying within
I'm the one sinking
yet they're quick to blame
with wagging fingers
writing out my shame
hooked and the hook
bewitched witches
monstrous regiment
embattled bitches
same old situation
we're ball-cock and chain
it's me draining yet you
don't hear me complain
wait on curse's fall
evil this way comes
blindly twiddling
ever pricking thumbs
and so the sand drains
counting down the hour
sightless sending SOS
from Shalott tower
For love of a man
out upon a ride
brought about doom
split glass side to side
was he gentlemen
or fork-tongue thief
was he really worth
the madness and grief?
I don't know yet
access still denied
to Charon's taxi
across river wide
"help" text sent long past
but 911 went dead
that's what I get for
going where my heart led
no wonder she took the hard way out
(The poem's over but the story's not done yet, so stay tuned to this dial at TOWR radio, folks.)
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