The old man climbed the spiral stairs. His practiced step was slow.

He paused to pat the wooden beams he'd polished long ago,

And mused about the chores he'd done before they'd called him old,

before his weathered home was deemed unfit for use, and sold.

And when he'd conquered, short of breath, that vast expanse of stair,

his troubled mind was shocked to find a plush apartment there.

To have his shining torch usurped by tourists on vacation

would never do. He checked the view with rising indignation.

He watched the myriad of lights that twinkled off the shore

of ships that once compelled his nights, but looked to him no more,

Then eyed, again, the furniture, the rug, the Chinese vase,

and every part that, in his heart, was strange and out of place.

It took a single kitchen match to set it all to burning.

The old man chuckled at the sight, saluted once, and turning,

Limped slowly down the spiral stairs, to reach the floor below,

delighted that his beacon shown with such a lovely glow.

It wasn't hard to find the way, and guided by his light,

he quickly found the open door, and vanished in the night.

The end of such a landmark seemed, to some, a tragic story,

but not to one who'd granted it a final blaze of glory.