A Lighthouse by the sea
Tall, dark and alone, it stands on rocky shores as the claws of the ocean grasp its slippery side - the sailors' saving grace yet redundant in these times of progress and technology. It's beam no longer illuminating the craggy pinnacles at its foot, the stonework sagging as it's will to hold on is lost.
We watch unheedingly as the bright, scarlet stripes fade and dust dulls the mirror - like sheen of the glass. The no more imperceptibly crumbling tower blocks eroded now to find powder near the base. The winding staircase covered in slimy moss and all we show is disregard.
Man's creation of aid and many a vessel's saviour, the lighthouse begins to degrade as it is stripped of its duty. The moans and tell tale creaks convey its despair, yet none but the sea gulls listen, their harsh cries showing no pity. They nest in the shelter, offering no gratitude and overstaying their welcome. The lighthouse complains not.
When the storms roll in from the East and the West - some humid and tropical, the others sharp and biting cold - the light house is lost in the haze, its light no longer slicing apart the waves of rain and wind. And the pain - as its bones rattle and window shutter teeth clack, the lighthouse bears the agony with dignity.
A view once so picturesque now wards off the hoards, dark and sinister. Fulled with ominous foreboding we all are pushed away. Some say it longs for revenge, that the screams at night echo and evil laughs. Yet somehow we think it is not so. This monument simply needs a friend - an empathic comrade to stand by him as he stood by us, watching over us and saving our crews' lives.
However, we protest not as the grunting, growling machinery knock down the lighthouse - perhaps it is better this way. It will no longer be in pain, it's sentience blown across the ocean on a cool breeze's wings. And the materials that bore it will now be borne in new creations - more useful, more attractive. The shoreline, no longer a threat, is empty and lacking, somehow more haunting than ever.
Here, alone I stand on this grave, and plant flowers to dispel ill feeling. Guilt washes away with the shells on the beach and the wind whispers forgiveness. I will be here to remember this light house, as I hope someday one will remember me.