Aging captain of a decrepit ship
detects no stirring wind anymore.
Sails drooped, fuel diminished,
seeking as always only some small safe harbor,
yet the horizon remains unnavigable.
Half a mile deep here yet still inadequate draft.
Sighing, he stares, fixing on useless oars.
He has sidestepped or weathered such storms in the past,
but this one seems more resolute.
Waves of heartbreak have lapped over his sanity, wetting it,
not compensated by any calculable contentment
they subside ever more slowly now.
They leave negotiable debris on some unreasonable beach
to be sifted through by no one anymore.
Constellations can no longer be depended on,
stars obscured by cataract logic, too reduced for guidance.
With compass demagnetized, directionless reigns;
yet even anchorless, must press on nevertheless.
Obliged to rely on dead reckoning, so often untrustworthy,
thought undercurrents have mostly misdirected him.
Coldness that cannot be dissuaded further confuses,
why by such terrible wrath has he been so often taken?
With wheel and rudder not answering,
barrelman blinded in a fog of remembering,
any more poor decisions risk broaching.
With no capstan to pull you back up straight,
just being lost is no longer an option.
Being the best of friends with the worst of luck for so long
makes this circumstance unsurprising,
knowing as he does that when the winds finally come
they will be harsh and sarcastic enough to capsize.
With wrong calls, sharp gusts, and failure driven gales
surely threatening to culminate in his demise,
is it the surface or the bottom that he seeks?