The Last Conquest of a Dead Man

A look, a glance, that

Quickly becomes a stare
That lasts until
A step toward
And a smile
Works its way out
From under the depths of a brooding soul
A solemn man, a sailor
Never to return, a last night on shore
And a final conquest.

To know one is the last
Is a privilege
A notch on a belt
A bead on a bracelet
A mile long
And yet, if one was not the last
But the first of many
Would one feel the same
As this single organ in a man's last attempt to be free?

One should like to think this true
But could never, not of a true contender.