The lighthouse shines in the afternoon sun,
Almost as though it knows the job is not done.
Old and abandoned,
Left for modern times,
Wants nothing better,
Than to be released from its confines.
Where is the lightkeeper,
Who climbed those stairs so many times?
Why doesn't the light shine its beam at night,
To let mariners know their voyage is alright?
What of the fresh paint needed on walls,
That have started to crumble and fall?
Why is it today, our history means less,
And our beautiful lighthouses,
Are fading fast.

By: Ann Shelton