Metaphorical

His fickle heart beats uncertain, 
Of all that lies in wait, 
As inner spectre impels him toward, 
A cemetery gate. 
will he settle for this fate? 
“My spirit scorn, and through this fear is born!” 
He howled with much contempt, 
“Though, I smile, 
for i have known the love of my Irish rose, 
and they are the last thoughts of which I’ve dreamt.” 
 
and so the capricious coming of the dim lighthouse beacon, 
once again fails to prove, 
he can be changed, and will not weaken, 
in hope her cause will have him move.

Into the unknown