It had been a lighthouse.
It had been a lookout tower.
It had been an artillery platform.
It had been an observatory.
It had been abandoned (and then reclaimed).
It had been a pirate radio station.
It had been an illegal nightclub.
It had been an art gallery.
Full of artworks designed to rot slowly away in the salted air.
And now, finally, on its 187th birthday, of thereabouts,
it was on fire.
A single candle burning
on a cake made of rock.
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Notes:
1. Written on May 8th, 2026
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