The cursed lighthouse stood up upon a cliff that stabbed the sky,
The lighthouse stood in the wind and rain,
Its beacon lost, its light gone dry,
A relic cursed with endless pain.
The waves below crashed cold and fierce,
Their voices shrieking through the storm,
The keeper’s cry, no soul to pierce,
Echoes in the sea’s forlorn form.
Its lantern room, now dark and bare,
Once held the light to guide the lost,
But now it waited in black despair,
A beacon to the tempest’s cost.
The keeper’s ghost still roamed the stairs,
His footsteps echoed in the gale,
A sorrowed man who knew the tales,
Of mariners lost in the night’s labyrinth.
The wind howled through the broken glasses,
Its fury was tempered by regret,
A haunting wail, a memory’s pass,
Of lives lost to the sea’s dark bet.
The foghorn’s moan, a mournful call,
Rang out across the bitter sea,
Yet no one heard its sorrowed fall,
For all were lost to eternity.
The cursed lighthouse stood, a spectral guard,
It lights a memory of old,
A curse upon its stones was marred,
A tale of sorrow, dark and cold.
And so it waited upon the cliff,
To tell its tale through the tempest’s roar,
A monument to those adrift,
And the keeper’s soul always.
The rain poured down in ghostly sheets,
Its rhythm was lost in the ocean’s cry,
The lighthouse wept as darkness met,
The roiling waves that never died.
Each lightning flash revealed the past,
Of shipwrecked souls and broken dreams,
Their voices lingered, shadows cast,
In the storm’s relentless screams.
The beacon’s light, once fierce and bright,
Now, it faded into the tempest’s dread,
A spectral glow in endless night,
Where hope and light have been since dead.
The keeper’s vigil never ended,
His curse bound him to the storm,
In waves and winds, his spirit wended,
A haunting shape, forever mourned.
Through mist and night, the story’s told,
Of sorrow deep and spirits old.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
