In my travels around the island,
one thing seemed to linger upon the air,
was it a failing light or heart rend?
The question did, my mind, ensnare.
For though the failing light descends,
Each night below the darkest navy seas,
My soul portends to spill its sins,
And ruminate on the nature of being.
I ask myself, each night, in failing light,
Those questions one may not want disclosed,
For truly to expose these wrongs from right,
I shine bright, new warm night, made whole.
© 2023 Mark Fulton