The Lighthouse Keeper.

By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )

Once, on a cliff where land met the restless sea,

stood a lighthouse, weathered, tall, and proud,

its keeper a quiet figure draped in mist,

living by the rhythm of waves and shadowed skies.

Each night, he tended the light,

feeding it oil from his dwindling stores,

watching it flicker against the encroaching dark,

a single, stubborn pulse in the vast emptiness.

Storms would come, relentless and wild,

As waves crashes like fists against stone,

winds tearing at the bones of his tower,

as if trying to pull it down to the depths.

He never left his post, though no one knew

the weight of every breath, every step.

How the stones grew colder with each storm,

and how the air tasted of salt and solitude.

Ships would pass, unseen faces within,

and he’d watch their sails slip into the fog,

bearing souls who’d never know

the strain of standing when everything breaks,

of holding light against a darkness so thick,

it pressed upon his ribs like the weight of the sea.

But still, he kindled the flame,

a quiet defiance,

and when dawn softened the edges of the night,

the lighthouse stood, worn but unbroken,

its keeper a silhouette in the morning’s embrace,

an unseen strength, buried deep as roots,

a tale carried only by the whispering wind.

By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )