A naked woman upon the figurehead Standing proud in the breeze Calling to the Sirens & wenches Knowing the truth of these seas Her beauty remaining firm & intact The ship around her orange with rust The sailors with splinters in their palms For she has a wooden bust
Lost beneath the shipwreck Down at the bottom of the cove Suffering from the scurvy With scant upon our old wood stove No fresh water nor ripe fruit Alone with only countless tales Doomed with no audience nor friend Fate of those who chase the whale
Within doctrines of the former realms Secular atonements when you cannot reap Our distorted narratives no longer at the helm Parched souls shudder when you cannot sleep
Notebooks wrapped in twine, lubricating my dreams Thinly veiled entitlements, rushing to meet the golden hour Misplaced refugees; tugging on our heart seams Stomp on rose colored lenses/before the vine turns sour
Standing tall amidst populism, still reading banned books Rejecting capitalism before you win a shopping spree Your enemy’s dilemma might be worth a look While upholding the realization of love’s prophesy
Embracing goblets of celebratory wine & errant notes Time to return to glory; fire dance upon wooden boats