The keel, torn asunder on the stone,
Doth drink of salt, of fish, of chain.
My chest of thalers and dreams hath flown,
And resteth on the ocean’s main.

I heed it not, for the helm now guides,
As distant fade the isles of yore.
One oar and shoe are lost in tides,
I clench my teeth, my hands grow sore.

The sea, aglow with crimson light,
Opens wide, yet leaves me dry,
But waters pierce like swords in flight,
As I cling to a mast awry,

Awaiting a wave, colossal and grand,
If any god doth heed my prayer,
To cast me upon some foreign strand,
Though my limbs be spent and bare.

With foam encircling eyes that weep,
I craft shapes of shadow and cries,
And two figures from the murk do creep,
Grasping my sides with weary sighs;

One is the man I’ve ne’er become,
Honest and brave in years gone by,
The other, perhaps, an elder form,
With glassy pupils, fingers dry.

Air fills my chest once more with pain,
My fingers yearn for the ancient helm,
Then I awake, in terror’s chain,
My legs like marble, heart o’erwhelmed.

One doth gaze, in white arrayed,
The other sits ‘pon a mossy stone,
His weary soul by the sea delayed,
Points forward where a grave is shown.

Must I die yet again, to be reborn,
In hopes of becoming something more?
The youth doth listen, a candle is sworn,
The elder sharpens an old, dull sword.

The beach doth speak in crashing waves,
In silence we stand, thoughts profound,
I rise, and soon, as the ocean raves,
We approach the grave, I seek some ground.

The group unites, the sun doth scorch
The hand that grips the wooden blade,
I wonder why the axe must torch,
When not e’en the handle’s fit for trade.

But from the woods, an aurora gleams,
The weapon falls, I bow to light.
A lady forms from shadowy beams,
With fair, pale skin and ravened sight.

She speaketh not, yet words are formed,
Of truths I know, but comprehend not,
I gaze at her, my heart now warmed,
And near her presence, trembling, caught.

I seek her gaze, in hope to find
Answers for sails and unknown shores,
Praying this isle, where I’m confined,
Be not the wellspring of darkened cores.

Her visage dawns, but at my height,
The world turns black, my chest doth sting,
I fall to knees, bereft of might,
And curse the void that pain doth bring.

That sense of naught behind my back
Doth loose my grip on stone and fate,
A thunderclap, a madman’s crack,
Paints darkness, and I wake too late.

The bed still warm, yet cold with dread,
And thou not near, as once thou wert,
I search the ether, rise from bed,
And wait for morn, though fears do spurt.

On the edge of the world, where I once sung
At twenty years or somewhat less,
When life was lived, with laughter sprung,
And every glass but half undressed.

Yet always doth the physics’ law
Reject the dreams illogic weaves,
So now I speak of us in verse,
While thou in dreamtides art received.

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