Islands washed with ink:
discarded by the beholder.
The quills’ feathers are the mast of the ship,
Which as it nears, grows bolder...
Wrinkled, torn, tattered and beaten,
The ship’s sails of dis-orientation
Pulled by a casual-just-so Wind,
Whom the crew cursed, and the Captain - questioned,
Resembled her sole surviving map:
Wrinkled, torn, tattered and beaten.
She studied the maze, composed, adapt,
She steadied the craft, she followed the rhythm.
Shores washed in ink:
disdained, the crew roars.
The gals’ quills, as the doubts sink,
Scatter off and the sails unfurl.
They squint upon the luminescent shore:
Calm-water-hugged, sun-kissed, and sand-cradled.
Watch their souls’ unprocessed ore
Melt with the bliss of these weary melodies,
As an old colony shivers on the horizon,
Clinging to life with the ferocity of a lion.
The crew chants steadily
“We left the land of kings and earls,
We felt the sand, the water curls
Of willful Lady of the Seas,
Who sings in tongues and calls benese,
Yet at the sight of Lady Luck
We claim the right to disembark”
They have left the land of kings and earls
They now are upon the land of devastation
And yet they disembark from the waters curled
Not for the plunder of war, but for its preparation
Preparation of a future battle
Great yet treacherous, to be foreshadowed
Initially they belittle the people of misery
And as the rain struck they scurried hither
The Captain traces upon the battered sand
Eyes of wonder, eyes of the beholder
Into a coven of thought she transcends
The crew follows with pugnacious bickers
The congregation of the colonists
Sit anonymously in the heavy mist
With dreary eyes and clustered frowns
They know if they leave they will drown