The ships sail their own path to the lighthouse; she is the one with the white and gray patches standing in the tall grass.
She is enough for them to keep plugging along.
Look closely at her physique, and you can see the etchings of those who have come, insistent, that she was more than what she was: a light for the lost.
Humanity's strikes against her surface are
all over this flare in the morning and night.
They don't know what she sees when the ships come:
How she fills up enough to stay as she is.
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