Wednesday, August 2, 2017
Upon the sea I find myself alone again, to know that I was born to die, but not just yet. It's why my raft—a case they made to lay my tattooed lover in—has much to say and do. A day has come and gone since all I knew went down beneath the waves, and Night—a respite from the Sun—has come to bathe me in a dark wherein I dream.
Not of my father who never really was the old and spiteful man who steered us here.
Nor of my mother who vanished within the deluge of career and life for which I was an inconvenient hand.
Not of my lover who's gone below with carpenter, the cabin boy, the smart-ass colleagues, the beaten desperate men, the fatalists and optimists, the faces in the light of burning oil carved and cut and tried from bloody work: a murder of the old, the weak and everyone in between.
No, upon this floating raft that looks fit for six feet underground I hear the water lap against the wood
and know that sharks are swimming by on business of their own. And so they pass this feeble snack of leathery orphan meat.
I dream of clouds ennobled by the Moon and seas that glitter on in pelagic symphonies. I dream of; hidden ears beneath the deep that know abyssal mountains and the cities made of shipwrecks.
I dream of her, approaching from that line of ontological perhaps, which we can never reach.
I dream of Rachel looking for her children.