II. Beacons In The Smoke

This poem is the continuation of "I. Letter From A Ghost"  
 
[font=Sylfaen]There are beacons, I recognize them;
prismatic shadows making sense of  
this whitewash. Their energies bleed  
out into the atmosphere - a full spectrum  
of polarities that tear a dispersive rift  
in my chest.  
 
Ethereal winds carry me to the nearest. I am
sheltered by an air of graciousness - a
home-dweller, surely, to take me in.  
"Whom am I to thank?" I spake aloud,
only for my beacon to shy away and
make shrill the delicate air.  
 
When was it in my alteration to
this bedamned nothingness did death
make a monster of me?