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
will get the point of the story
minding the small lights
to save the seamen
but what about women
struggle sinking again?
who saves prisoned maids
accused of causing sin
man-eating mermaids
yet we're dying within
I'm the one sinking
yet bizarrely they blame
with wagging fingers
pointing out my shame
both hooked and hook
bewitched witches
monstrous regiment
embattled bitches
same old situation
we're the ball and chain
though its me draining
don't hear me complain
wait on curse's fall
bad thing this way comes
unseeing twiddling
ever pricking thumbs
the sand also drains
counting down the hour
blindly 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 worth it all
the madness and grief?
I don't know yet
access still denied
to Charon's taxi
to the other side.
texted "help" long ago
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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