Lantern of the Lost

They said the dead forget the light,

but I’ve seen them follow its hum.

Not the kind that burns,

but the kind that remembers.

A single lantern,

swinging from a trembling hand—

mine.

The glass fogs when I breathe too close.

Inside, a flame small enough

to mistake for weakness,

steady enough to name as faith.

I walk through fields

where no name survives the wind.

The grass folds at my feet

like it’s been waiting for me to come back.

Maybe it has.

Some nights,

the lantern flickers

and every shadow looks like someone I knew.

Mother humming.

Lover waiting.

God, listening.

If I set it down,

the dark swells with memory—

not cruel, just endless.

Like the light itself is the only thing

that hasn’t moved on.

Maybe that’s all a lantern is:

the ache that chooses to glow anyway.

The pulse that stays

when the world has gone still.

And as I walk,

the flame steadies—

not because the wind has stopped,

but because I finally have.