The Sea Rushes In

He sleeps in thunderstorms, temporarily cocooned from a fathomless death. When his ship sunk he had swam away from a life to an island in his mind. He sways hammock-less as a crashing gale rolls him inside an acoustic guitar, a sea-going instrument that can be plucked only with lovelorn fingers. She was a masthead once one that led him astray. Red grapes and red lips had beguiled him. He ropes her thick black hair around his waist; makes ready to tie himself to a rocking mast. The night sky keeps him searching in the dark heart of any storm; a dream ship surfacing once more and he knowing he is the sea itself rushing inward.