The Caretaker's Lamps: a written-in-verse poem

A translucent figure - 

Cold hands,

Cold feet,

Cold body,

Limps on the bridge, step by step,

Clasping their hands together, like a beggar

As sparks sear blisters into their palms.

It’s before dawn, air dry and numb. 

The sky grey and mute with a tint of saffron bleeding into its hue.

The bridge is not for eyes not of this world,

Surpassing the length of the Nile

Going from East to West with endless asphalt going down the line. 

The smoke rising up covers the bridge like a veil on a bride,

Below there is soot of old, 

Never kindled long enough to

Warm a thought. 

The figure staggers close to the railing, never looking over its edge

And stops at a lamp with a chimney sitting idly. 

The tick-tocktick-toktick-toktick-tocktick-tocktick-toktick-tock

Never ceases in their ears, 

They cannot even give out a groan to acknowledge their pain

As their tongue was cut out. 

Their only acknowledgement is as the caretaker to the lamps,

With no start, no end, continuously in time.

To light the lantern they fill the lamp with 

Ichor as oil -

Place the wick made of curiosity to soak -

Bring up their seared hands giving a light touch to 

Ignite.

The flame grows illuminating into a simple white glow; 

The figure can only watch for a second,

Seeing flashes of thoughts, feelings, determination grow 

Into an idea about to be sowed.

To the next one - 

The next -

Next -

The figure goes carrying on limping down the bridge,

Kindling each lamp 

Seeing a blaze of yellow, orange, red, and blue

Paying no mind to the soot’s guffaws and caterwauls, 

Only hearing the crackling of new ideas beaming bright. 

Though the soot calls up to the caretaker

There is nothing they can do

Now that the soot are underneath the bridge. 

Its flames flickered out long ago.

It happens, happens more than one would think.

Some burn fast and stay -

Some burn fast and vanish.

Some burn slow and spasm out - 

Some burn slow and steady. 

That is the fate of some flames, unable to thrive 

Once ignited.

The caretaker glances in pity, still limping to the next lamp,

To make another beacon for a soul moving forward,

As the soot sends the smoke up surrounding the bridge to try to see

What they would never, ever 

Be.