The Captain Sails Atop the Storm

Like sitting upon a sail at the storm’s peak, riding its mastery, and black and blue artistry. Underneath the vessel’s feet, it’s troubled us to flip us end to end, to break its back. Pale is the moon under many a gossamer sheet of the criminal-clouds. The sun likewise quivers, a sickly-green hue, as the seaweed, underneath the careening boat, moves either like tentacles or woman’s full-length hair, underneath our coffin. The teeth of the sea seethes, it’s vengeance sure. Its waves long to crush the wooden bones. Blast of the storm’s nostril, like an explosive bull, and the bolts of lightning like a game of competitive darts. Like sitting upon a sail at the storm’s peak, riding its mastery, and black and blue artistry. I laugh with maniacal eyes. I scream at its pleasure. It boasts. It taunts. The ants below my eyes, tossed to and fro, caught in an onboard net of spilling waves. The storm suddenly yawns, momentarily forgets to care. The sun and the moon both force their way through. It is the darndest thing that was seen that day. The golden sun and the silver moon, joined by sunrise and sunset, bloom over the horizon. The jaws of the sea dropped, calmly looking on, a bit unsettled and cowering. “Not this time,” I say with a wink. I nod at the sun and moon. I slink down the pole and tell the wet and sniveling swabbies to “clean the deck.” My compass points toward the treasure. The weak knees and minds of all on board will be strongly dealt with. Nothing will delay my task. I will get my wife back! 8/22/2022