I see the beacons.

Golden tendrils of blessed light

That curl and wisp and fade

Into the darkened water,

Lapping at the white sand,

Pure and ethereal and sinless.

I am always drowning

Though I see the beacons.

They cry white-hot tears

And reach for me,

Sing for me,

Glow for me,

Will me into the safety of brown-stained docks,

But I shake their golden grasp off

And slip back into my tar-black waves,

Churning with fresh rain

Pelting from a graying sky,

Hands that pull at me.

I hear the Lighthouse's Lament,

And they weep for where I went,

And I will to drown

Just a little bit 

Longer.