Ode to Lighthouse-no-longer
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| Image credit: (Pinterest/Ellen) |
So this is the tongue you wield now, Lighthouse-no-longer—
a brittle oracle hurling verdicts at my skull,
murmuring that I “will never understand,”
that nothing “will ever touch my mind,”
that I should stay hushed, unlit,
like an obedient ember smothered by its own heat.
How small your grandeur sounds
when held to the lantern of truth.
You speak as if crowned by cosmic knowledge,
yet your throne is carved
from the thinnest, trembling ego—
a sanctum of dust masquerading as divinity.
Do you hear the hollowness ringing in your own voice?
It reverberates like wind clawing through a ghost-tower,
a tower you once brought me into,
back when you still remembered
how to be gentle,
how to be mortal.
But now you hurl your certainty
like rusted daggers toward my ribs—
certainty stolen from shadows,
stitched from half-formed thoughts,
a mantle of arrogance unraveling
each time your breath betrays you.
And still—
still you command my silence,
as though my fire exists
to warm the cold chambers of your pride.
Listen closely, Lighthouse-no-longer:
I understand more than your fear permits you to imagine.
I see the fractures behind your borrowed thunder.
I hear the trembling ghost
lurking beneath your loud, hollow bravado.
Your dismissals did not wound us—
they revealed you.
You, the self-made saint,
of a crumbling illusion,
standing ankle-deep in the ruins
of the person you once pretended to be.
And yet—
I never let your name curdle in other mouths.
I held your trembling confessions
like relics no one else was meant to touch,
kept the shadows you spilled in my hands
as if they were sacred,
as if you were still someone worth believing.
I never flung your lies into daylight,
never uncaged the rot you tried to hide—
because I knew your own life,
your own spiraling orbit of choices and illusions,
would one day unmask the decay
you thought you buried beneath your delusion.
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