Sonar

Honestly don't know
Where the Hell is
Our light house, stood up
On fallacies of rocky coasts
Awaiting night time liners.

We turn days, years over
Nights that swim thoughts
With wading tidepools
And deep ends oceans old,
Unspecific. Past points
In existence where photons whir
To silhouette Earth's tumbling
Bowling ball.

Light houses stood up like pins
At lane ends, each of us
Soon ricocheted, collapsed into
Guiding lights.

Honestly don't know
Where the light house
We eyed with curious fear
A serpent more afraid and prostrate
Than us, than its cobra raise
Or rattle might entail, a tower made
Derelict by global position
Is.