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
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