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
Captain Q 