A Lighthouse Made of Lego
all hope and
wrath in vile
tell tale tit
Beams will flash
paler than winter moons,
hint that pursuits such as these;
quick sticking plastic brick in plastic
brick, of assorted spectrum hued colours,
are best left as the idle pursuits of small children.
Scrubbing around in grubby, sticky boxes for greasy bits
leftover; not quite really a finished article, but almost fits,
gaudy, garish; pressed together with colours scrambled
level, plumb, square, true; boasting shrieks of this will do
for sure and the want of a horseshoe nail. You might rue
when rolling waves rip it to pieces, unfit for any function,
nature shrugging whatever shoulders without compunction.
It stands at odds with stupendous shores to be pointed out,
an odd curiosity, strangely incongruous, framed with doubt,
swimming in life’s heat, it gives up, crumbles, melts away
into mindless toxic bricks,
spitting horrid poison spray.