There is scant light on this stormy
morning. No dawn has edged on
that blind horizon that seems to
break the starry reflection
in monstrous swells, and foamy crests.
There was no destination planned,
a tiresome task to run away,
to find some new world for my
eyes to single out purpose, or excitement,
yet, in a fortnight, I’d forgotten.
I lost my way in open sea, and searched
for that flash, that glimmer, that
ends itself and repeats.
The constellations are my only
companions, no rowdy crew to drown
my introspection, and my small
vessel, little more than a raft,
tosses back and forth, a
thrall to antipathic nightmare.
Without an inkling of
the nearest land, at the mercy of
the tempestuous sea,
there is no beacon of lighthouse,
no sanctuary, nor prayers
uttered for me.