Beacon,
how do I address you?
Because I can’t decide if you are hope
or not—even surrounding you,
there is corruption.
You came to me when I least expected it
(I most needed it), and
you mark a transition;
a merging of inner and outer.
So yes, you are a beacon of hope
for me
and for those holding you, too
you will always shine the light of
linear time—yesterday’s sunset,
tomorrow’s sunrise.
But when I read between the lines,
this smells of something foul,
a melting in the gut;
a twisting melting, decay in the gut.
Politics are not for children.
Politics are not for the innocent,
and that’s what you are,
undeniably. Swaddled in
plush baby blues,
eyes and mouth closed—
blind to the world and silent
for both your missing parents and
the dual winds which wish to
pull you apart.
Beacon, though your presence brings tears of joy,
you do not belong here.
Even if your continued existence
is some sort of sign, to what avail?
If people like me were any good at reading those,
you’d still have a name.
(Besides, child, some might say
I’m fooled by your youth.
Cultural instincts, maternal instincts, pick a school of thought,
but I know what love is,
and I feel it when I look at you,
Beacon.)
