A Withering Sail

He hungers not
For what the ocean may yield
As his eternity winds down
Trudging slow toward its final hour

Home
Sways atop the bustling tide
Creaking and moaning
Her bones rusted and brittle
Tired from her long way
Courting generations shore to shore

The man
Holds steady at the helm
With only the lapping waves
To ease his battle hardened earlobes

White locks flutter
As the high noon star crumbles
Disintegrating, into a cool blistering purple

But the ages dragged on
With a glare of hopelessness
Weighted by the open, the vast and empty

Gem encrusted nights
No longer blanket the shuttering vagabond
With drained pupils fixed forward
And his frail chattering limbs, guiding the helm
But he does not levy an inch
Trudging westward, engulfed in nightfall

Garbed in Blue

Squawking buzzards
Hang above my rigid frame
Awaiting, with a sickly hunger
Gathering, massing
Thieving of these winter skies

Far gone and bleeding
Where the muskets bore through
Not a whimper in my voice
Not a thought in my skull
I graciously
Die, blissfully unaware

It was a fleeting honor
For the twentieth Maine
Garbed in sacred blue
Bayonets at the ready

We sprang for madness
Shouting to higher glory
As the cannons butchered, and maimed
Sparring not a soul
No fresh face unscathed
I caught my fate
Swift, clean, and painless
Another notch to their belts
Another name, pressed and sold

Closure

In somber resolve
Where she perished and dissolved
Disheveled and dismembered
For the poor souls to recall

With one passing thought
I crumbled, grief stricken and distraught
All for her greater good
Far beyond, what is tame and understood

Scorn
Wields her dominance, like an iron saber
Thrust in me, so I may gush and savor
Where will I turn in the wisps of madness?
Cursed and deranged, somber and breathless
Never to attain
What was, blissfully insane