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A stoic beacon bears it’s projecting light.
In haunted, ubiquitous, intersecting night.
Pledging to guide us from perplexed unsight.
Into sprawling vistas of untombed serenity.
On colourful canvass bloomed prosperity.
In shimmering shades and tinged tones;
yellow, purple, red, green, blue, black, white.

Cockcrow burns gloomed, mourning void.
Blanket silence sets alight, destroyed.
Smouldered quiet sizzles wisps recoiled.
Another hushed night is abruptly spoiled.

New day is capped with a beaming crown.
Seen on high for galaxies around.
Clouds muster the courage to undenounce.
An atmosphere bursting bubbles, proud.

What becomes of we cherished beacons?
As ravined routes to darkness dig and deepen.
When we close our eyes invoking lights depletion.
We open days, hearts, nights and dream’s Elysian.
Yes, when we open minds fight for the weakened.
We shine; bold, unblinkered, bright;

Earth to Elysium.

© poormansdreams

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