Lamp Lines

The lamp is dim,
worn by age and winds,
it’s color lost,
and yet, still somehow,
even with its’ faint flickering,
a beacon
for others wandering in the dark.

And so, you protect it,
shield it from the storms,
trim it’s wick,
and add fresh oil to fuel it’s flame.

There is no wisdom in this.
No master plan.
A small act of survival, nothing more,
a sureness that if your flame
survives the night,
dawn will rise, a light you no longer need to feed,
and for a while at least,
you can rest.

About the poem. 

Sometimes we tend to ourselves, not with any master plan, but just to keep existing until the plan shows itself. Working in faith, not of something specific, but in some broad general way believing this certainly can’t be all there is.

Tom