Strapped to the Mast:
The seas were rough that night
we sailed past, me strapped to the mast,
the men, with wax in their ears, shielded
from the voices that came to me from the rocks.
Folly it is said, is the choice to see
the Hand of God (or in this case hear Her voice),
and want to live beyond the point
when life‘s end should be reached.
I live now in grey, rain falling even in the heat.
I live with the song tumbling in my breast,
the yearning, a current that grants me no rest.
I chose this fate, I wanted to hear,
I asked for the ropes and the mast
to press hard and imprint itself upon my flesh;
I alone endured the song as we sailed past
but long after the men had removed their plugs
the unraveling words echoed within and within
and within, spiraling down and down
until the very blood in my veins now carries the song;
urging me to find the edge where the ocean
tumbles, like the screams of men, into the abyss.