Timber glories in its own girth,
floating a mile off, bragging to the fog
of having no need of anchor,
how it answers no harbor light.
But its wood is drying out,
internal binding just a slow rigor mortis.
True freedom is not their drift;
it is the violent, grounding shudder
when the hull finally strikes the stones.
Let the bottom tear out.
Let the water we kept at bay rush in.
Only when wrecked upon gravel
can we finally stand up
and walk onto the dirt.
🪵