The Lighthouse

What breathes into the brain and sustains from some secret place a sullied heart? The pains of faces of others for the wicked barb and (un) done deed to garnish a little 'peace' --- but to gloat in cruel cosmos --- and sharpen thy sardonic horns, trust in the world and its soft whispers of death.... Little darkling upon thee --- who walks on crushed beds of glass, the sharp shards gather in baneful bits ....to each corner of thy heart and mind; Thy soul is devoid of death and breathes infinite dreams, and rears from the razor-sharp, biting shards --- not a glass darkly, but the glints of glazed stars; Dig a little deeper, through the sullied shadows dark, how slow, fat little imps swiftly depart, swifter thy beams of light than slow plodding dark, faceless night; not moon, star or light --- deep...deep... so stark and shadowless, beyond all memory and thought Not an image to paint for only formless black... (on thy pallet to have) --- only light in life; can bring you back what you can have, the stars and moons, and dreams you make.... How can you be lost, (when you are the light?) ***Written in 2015/For moments down in faith***