Lighthouse

There should be a word for this,
How the midnight’s streetlights can reflect conversations better
As it hushes and tiptoes in its after hours around the sun’s slumber
Yet how she blushes daily
As she stretches to arise so... lazily
Sparks too much of a thought given over to such a mundane lot
Whom are sitting cross legged as an accidentally splattered dot
A stain to squint at a massively framed picture
An abrupt end of a sentence within a skipped scripture

Their bulbs would magnify,
Spilling self-portraits onto waters
For them to dive further away from where their feet are cemented
It paints a shimmering lane made of a flammable mix of colors
A mess of a gasoline spill they could be but can only dream of
A statement on how they get to burn bigger than this - brighter
A foreshadowing of a rebellious core from a simple flick of a lighter
Out of their designated shapes they reach out
To the curling hands of those amidst their midnight walks, hungry to be wise
To lonesome lighthouses trying to flirt as they'd monotonously wink for something nice
And aimless flocks of waves, weaving together, like stingrays in disguise
For they are a home for others yet where to belong, they would wonder

There should be a word for this, 
For the gaps in between that resembles the browning of an over-used palette
For timings that have been worst
As it is always distracted by yet another tardy white rabbit
And for how there aren’t enough words for things,
How one can be infatuated with a mere web of conversations
Spinning a trap around them endlessly, a braided illusion of certainty
Yet we are oil and water, still - a tightrope set up, attached though apart
For us to joust till one falls but then live to tell the tale of such a perilous art

All of this,
Does not seem fit with a common word used, despite how it taps its toes to its rhythm
Tucks its sharp edges, stares too long than looks away in a scripted euphemism
However it is something my ink would thoroughly spill for instead
Collapses on a pile of paper bed
Floating along the numbing proses of its alluring bliss
Flutters to spread out like a rookie magician though you might not notice

There should be a word for this, So that I can scribble some more of it on my wrist Each wording a stone for me to hopscotch on A reminder of every dialogue that has saved me And every fall I would exaggerate and dramatize as an arrow to the knee Victoriously limping once more towards the blink of a familiar vacancy

Where words unknown would hung in its silent doldrums
And I shall rest by its gleaming lane until the morning hums