Beyond the cliffs where the cold winds call,
Stands a lighthouse, ancient and tall.
No maps reveal its eerie light,
Yet sailors swear they see it at night.
Its beacon hums a ghostly tune,
Glowing red beneath the moon.
A burning eye that should not be,
Blinking slow upon the sea.
No door, no path, yet there it stands,
Built by no known human hands.
The waves, they crash, they cry, they wail—
But none return to tell the tale.
Old Tom swore he’d row ashore,
Find the truth and nothing more.
He left at dusk with torch in hand,
And vanished where the dark cliffs stand.
His boat returned, but he did not,
Drenched in seawater, cold as rot.
A whisper echoed on the tide—
“The lighthouse calls, the lost abide.”
A century’s passed, the tower remains,
Still whispering seafarers’ names.
So heed this warning, lest you stray,
For some lights should not guide your way.