Lost At Shore


I couldn't possibly be humbled more
a man shackled to the shore
while the ship of freedom is lost
at sea
searching for me

and I can't help but look on
envisioning myself onboard
standing next to someone
responsible for my rescue--
someone whom I will never see again

looking back at the shore
it shrinks the farther away we sail
my middle finger waving goodbye.

I sit on this wretched sand
my arms wrapped loosely around
my folded legs, pondering
if the tides will push that ship onwards

or back towards this shore--
this forsaken shore
that has kept me hopeful?
Lost in a reoccurring reverie:
my feet walking the damp cold floors
of that moving golden ship--

away from the emptiness
that devours so effortlessly.
The captain walks up to me
exhaling smoke from a Cuban cigar

and asks if I'm alright?
I tell him I am; he says Ok
and walks away, leaving
behind an amorphous ghost
of cancerous smoke.

My shackled foot tugs away
at this chain, burgundy from rust
attached to that enormous boulder
that has my birth date engraved
on its face, followed by a dash
and question mark...

I tug away at this chain
the infected cuts on my ankle
blackened from numerous attempts
to free myself
from this ravenous shackle

to no avail... I had stopped--
my broken skin too sensitive
to look at, even less touch.
The once golden ship
is now a black speck

seconds away from disappearing
into the endless ocean forever
my dream of escape more vivid
as it sails on towards its destination
and away from the reach
of my finger tips.

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