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?
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