stuck motionless in the air's corpse
the stink of rotting potential seeps
into the sagging skin of my empty sails
wrinkles crusted with brine and boredom
salt is the only taste in this grey state
silence is the only sound on this ship

above
the Moon rides
the currents of comets
Her ivory figurehead waxing broad reach
as She breezes past an archipelago of constellations
on an endless sojourn from shores of sunset to the gulf of dawn
and at Her pinnacle She briefly moors in the midnight
casting Her gaze across the placid darkness
reflected in the black water below
and every night I drown again
in the gentle embrace of
myriad halcyon
stars


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Mayan, in the year 999 AF.