Land's edge--
World's end--
they call it.
White-capped waves
wash the rocks.
The sea is dark, bitter,
deep as a lonely soul
full of heartache.
The gulls clack,
frozen mid-air.
Stiff as kites
off the string,
they own the wind.
I watch an island tower,
an abandoned lighthouse,
its cycloptic eye
blind, expired.
Dark, brooding,
the structure pokes
a finger at God,
reminding him
it's there.
Sometimes,
I too wonder
If I should poke
a leaden sky,
or be grateful
for the mercy
of neglect.
Then I hear him
in my heart:

"Feeling lost,
doesn't make it so.
Turn around.
I'm still with you.
It's you that turned
away."