She is a Lighthouse

She is the lighthouse the storm could not erase.

She was born not from peace, but from pressure.

Chiseled out of loneliness,

mortared with stubbornness and sorrow,

she rose where the wild winds screamed untamed.

The sea never meant to break her.

It simply existed-

wild, feral, endless;

a force without mercy or malice.

It hurled itself against her stone again and again,

not to destroy her,

but because that is what seas do.

And still- she stood.

She stood when the sky tore open.

She stood when the salt ate into her walls.

She stood when her windows shattered,

when her voice cracked from calling into the void.

Her light bled raw from her wounds,

a fire wrestled up from the deepest marrow of her being.

She did not burn for applause.

She did not shine for thanks.

She existed to prove, if only to herself,

that even when the world raged blind and brutal,

something could still stand.

Something could still shine.

Some nights, she shook.

Some nights, she wept into her own foundation.

Some nights, the winds howled so hard it felt like even the rocks pled.

But the world would break itself against her;

not the other way around.

She is a lighthouse,

worn, weathered, cracked.

Her light is not polished;

it is jagged, defiant, alive.

A savage blaze that says,

“You may rage, you may tear, you may drown the whole sky,

but I remain.”

And in her relentless burning,

she became the unseen hand for the wandering,

the battered ships who had forgotten the shape of the shore.

She asked for no witness,

no gratitude-

only that her light might cut through the dark enough

to lead someone else home.