Brom's Lighthouse

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, May 20, 2012 Under: Rhymed Verses


The ocean swayed to and fro, yearning to reach the dead fleet
A chaotic tide reminiscent of Poseidon stirring beneath his bed sheets
Purposefully he tread sleet, ice deposits and reef slick
Would you believe this - lighthouse operator slightly nautious and sea sick?
When cerulean-green waves superseded the beach, a lichen opera proceeded
Right wingers started a grievance, leaving us with no Viking-Spartan agreement
They were large, discarded Agamemnon’s guard as the weakest -
Modern armada elitists, barnacles feasting on the lost arks of allegiant monarchs
- sephardic but beaten, in epic naval battles with the sound of Mozart leaked in
Though Brom was a controlled artesian, he happened to inhabit a cold, dark region
No heart beating, stoic features, a supporter of post war Norwegian folklore teachings
A Barbadian cretin who spent his evenings patrolling horizons
Searching for better reasons to unleash his league of unholy surprises
Men of legions never strolled to his island, as wetter regions were slowly arising
From atop his citadel in the middle of nowhere he’d send out a strobe in the silence
Incoming vessels received the electrical signal - they flashed back some more
Combated fjords only to have a collapse in store, as packs of galleons crashed ashore
A thousand shipwrecks spread across the sea, imitating a massive morgue
Their battered masts engorged by assassin Saxon gores…
simulating a passionate reenactment of matadors stabbing an advancing boar
Brom paced back and forth, gallivanting as he counted the floating galley oars
Algae morphed, clustered around shipwrecks and wind nested braided cysts
Out of the gristle and fire became a rift, and his Pyre just managed to glint with desire
He ate brisket in bliss with a smile… overlooking the fruits of a serendipitous trial
In particular; guile, this aquamarine tomb had become a bridge that continued for miles
Some day, perhaps his feat of engineering would reach Ithaca’s isles
Assured himself the gods would give him asylum for all the sailor’s lives he’d left for dead
An agonizing red burlesque was pressed against an amber vibrance - pestilence
This paradigm was evident and characterized this tantalizing stretch of death
Arctic boots Stepping Over Sleeping souls would only emphasize each S.O.S.
Sometimes he wept inside from restlessness, depressed from endless quests, perplexed
There was a thin line between conquest & genocide but that’d jeopardize the etch-a-sketch
He was Brom, the mighty bridge builder, collector of human boats
Sea baron, connector of continents, canoe & cloak, illumining this feudal funeral
That’s when he stroked his neck with his cuticles, for killing so many men with his power
Obliterated by the jagged glaciers that jotted out from the edge of the tower…
Beware if you should ever happen upon that blinding light from Brom’s haunted lamp
Consider his awesome plan to cross the land & leave the nimble grip of infinity abandoned
his obelisk spawned from godless hands -
his monolith of fossil rock and sand,
To recreate the bridge city of Atlantis…

In : Rhymed Verses 



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