On the Image

Rending blood from the ocean floor,
the anchor moors
not for the sake of the ship,
nor for the souls on board,
but to open a door, of sorts. 

This is a relentless weight,
cast in its mold as though against fate
itself, pulling taut against the ripping
tides, hiding beneath their opaque
veneer, a lamentable shadow. 

Symphonies on deck merely 
waking what bellows,
a monster, below—
its cries lost among cheers
as movements come and go. 

To board such a vessel
one simply signs a name, yet
here we are—wayward
but not wandering!
We don't wander, here. 

Merrily we dance upon the depths
of one too many ideas,
one errant notion that—
taking its first breath—
grows eyes to return our gaze. 

A pity about those on shore... 

Rending blood from the ocean floor,
our wake, above, dyes red.
We do not turn to see the beast;
we roar along, instead.