He Who Is Lost

If I am the sailor,
he who is lost
at sea,

sailing

toward the point
of no return,
then you are
the beacon,
the lighthouse,

hailing,

a lonely
call, on the
storm-churned
breeze.

I will answer,
adrift, empty sail,
‘cross Marianas’ rift.

I’d do well
to find your fire,
burning high,
behind your icy rails,
so far above
the ocean’s swell.

My love, ‘ever-burn,
your halo is fire
and your hearth is warm.

Bless me, so that
I’ll sail safely
through this time
and through my storm,

lest I crash
upon the rocks
and my body
is lost to the churn.

©️ Obol, 2019.