A Lullaby For the Drowned

Moon kisses blown by evening’s silver lips caress the ocean's pricked up ears. They hear a mute rage, frothy hackles raised to spear a passing fleet of ghostly nightbound ships. Dead dreams float up as daylight slowly slips into the deep; again we face our fear that dying might not be the last frontier. A final move to hell requires many trips. High above the deck, I spy over the bow, watching for shoals and reefs that lurk below; my crow's nest cradle teeters on the bough the wind will break, though when I do not know. Then we will plunge into the sea we plow, lustful and wet. How can we sink so low?