Poetry

A ship is drifting on a vast brine,
after sailing the weary ocean of north.
Across the twilight reconning to float south,
beholding dawn as a vestige of a new coast.
Floating away on a sea of wonder,
praying to make it to south coast.
He has nothing but his sailcloth,
only piece  didn’t stole by the burglar north.
Sailcloth that keeps him soar,
piece that thunder might still latch on.
Abashed of the billowing sail,
languish ship might deep in the sea sink.

Cast down he is,
weary and dreary vessel
long longing of the seashore,
daunted he may never ever see!