Spectra of sharp lights from dark lighthouse,
Brightens everything up front of my eyes.
The light that pumps courage,
Plants uncertain hope to a spinning destiny,
Seems to me a bright black hole.
Enlightened foots rooted in the ground,
Shackled by educated myths.
My tiny foots stroll on the uneven turf,
And hit countless solid unseen darts,
I see it clearly,
A few shadows plucking,
countless nostrils of the brown foggy lights.
But I don’t see my own hoof,
spinning around in an untouchable circle.
In the lighthouse,
a few couples of bright sights,
staring at my every motion with a vive,
that produces a fear of Panopticon.
But those figures are strangely invisible.
It resists my thoughts ideologically,
That I can hardly push the boundary,
beyond the structured barrier.
The only exit is on the high ceiling,
Sealed with a thick scratchy glass,
Covered by the Shroud of Turin.