Merry Morse

The distant wheel revolves within the night; its boastful stature begs to be subdued; though comforting I find, its flashing lights and its unwavering vivacious mood. Its garland gleams from its circumference in patterns that I cannot comprehend. Perhaps I'm not the one who holds the sense to understand the ciphers that it sends. The cargo that it bears must be the key, and so I board the incandescent gyre, in hopes that someone down below will see and apprehend my brisk formatted fire. Oh turn-oh turn my metal merry morse, and let your color-coded canvas course!