Who trusts themselves in this cold, dark water,
Beneath the lightless house of the critic,
The panopticon of dry suspicion
Now so near to this frank heart of belief—
A heart turned to hate its very beat.
Such stale waters, briny and corrosive,
Rust away our naivest convictions,
Those farce freedoms we long to liberate
As some bottled fly, buzzing in our ears—
Some wiry drug peeling the lid’s eye.
Those sleepless itinerants lie in wait,
Panning from their rancid, papal estates,
Innocuous to the stench of a sea
Polluted with their vile plastic pages—
Sallow kings high on being nauseated.
Who will seine the poisons from this ocean?
To face the sickness unto death from that
Which we no longer even believe in,
Such things now diagnosed by men in pale coats—
Who find our buzzing bottles floating there?
If despair is my conviction then I will savor its sour flavor in some place far from this vile sea,
Where this heart can trust and believe in something there, something free, something
lost now considered naïve. I will place this anchor with whatever forced grin
I must gather and wait to see your sails blow by, your bow pointing
Toward some foreign land.
Set your sails, friend.
Cast your anchor, sister.
Wear the sun’s scars with pride.
Your restraint is only the horizon.
With toil and joy as earth spins around us,
Take your craft far and tell us all what you see there.
Chart your course with conviction, brother, and drop this anvil
Deep into the dark waters that bring us life and breath and beauty and belief.
Photo Credit: Karol D