Nature's Mistress, Slack tide and Hope's glow

The crystal bearing, soft waves of her gentle attire glisten in incompressible beauty;
any man would readily drop to his knees to sail upon her delicate, yet merciless exterior.
     All creatures and objects, slaves to her charm.

The Moon – a wondrous rock to thanks we should give to its purity aglow each night;
lighting the skies with no other friends but minuscule stars, too far to hear his whisper.
     The man in the moon becomes no more than a warped reflection over her.

Deep in the backs of our minds, do we often wonder how many she has taken;
How many are never to feel the shore under their feet again?
     With thanks to her jealousy and sense of self riotousness, too many.

Thankfully her search for dominance is dampened by the circular light from a beacon of hope;
beyond any darkness proudly it stands - a battered lighthouse.
     Her waves can bash and claw at its base, it will not yield nor bow to her.

Given its way, it would place her in a constant state of slack tide;
to kill the agitated queen – she was there first but it will protect those who get lost.
     It will shine its orange light and call home her prey.

Deep in the backs of our minds, do we often wonder how many it has saved;
leaving itself dangled on an island with nothing to grasp but determination and stubbornness.
     Not a single brick is to fall in to her bottomless pit.

How many of us see the light as a rescue mission for us?
How few see the light as a distress call for itself?