poem07 Dec 2015 09:32 am
"Burning Ship Fractal". Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Burning_Ship_Fractal.jpg#/media/File:Burning_Ship_Fractal.jpg

“Burning Ship Fractal”. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Burning_Ship_Fractal.jpg#/media/File:Burning_Ship_Fractal.jpg

I.

First the storms come
and we do everything
we can to keep the ship afloat,
a three-masted frigate bound
to Portsmouth out of Ceylon ,
riding low in the water with
a heavy cargo of tea and spices.

Dark clouds fill the horizon
and race toward us faster
than the ship can run.
Light flees the sky and
in the false dusk that follows,
a harsh moisture bristling
with electricity fills the air.

Before we can trim the sails
sheets of rain avalanche
down, shafts of lightning
strike the waters about us,
and the wind begins to howl
like a bughouse monster.

Sometimes we manage
to ride out that first storm
and that gives us courage.
Then there is another,
dangerous as the first,
and a third fiercer still.

The masts topple,
the hull is breached,
and we are thrown
into the icy brine
amidst the lashing rain.

As we sink into the cold
and voracious deep,
fish with long rows
of razor-sharp teeth
tear us apart bite of
flesh by bite of flesh.

It seems to take forever
before we can drown,
our mouths screaming
soundlessly as our
convulsing lungs
are filled with water.

II

Worse than the storms
are the deadly calms that
leave the sea motionless,
a sheet of blue glass on
which reflections of the
light above are blinding.

We lie slack upon the decks
in whatever shade we find,
the sun beating down upon
us from a merciless sky.
We wait listlessly for our
rations of water and rum,
our minds lost and vacant
in the unremitting heat.

When the sun finally sinks
to the horizon, we anticipate
the temporary relief of night.
Yet there is to be no night.
Instead of shrinking the light
along the horizon grows.

Glowing orange clouds come
rolling across the waters,
horned clouds filled with
frightening shapes and figures.
The sea begins to boil as sheets
of sizzling lava sweep across it.
The wood of the ship catches
fire and the decks collapse.

As we are cast into the flames,
burning over and again,
the raging fires consuming
us endlessly, our dazed
minds come alive at last,
our pasts parade before us.

Now we realize that we
have never been sailors.
We are investment bankers,
bent politicians, cardsharps
and shady merchants,
rapists and thieves,
outrageous pimps
and audacious whores,
tyrannical husbands
and insidious wives.
All nevermore.

For now we understand
full well for the countless
time that we are nothing
more than unrepentant sinners,
mandatory guests at our own
damnations, sailing upon
the seas of Hell forevermore.

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