Cruises

To sit upon a port’s glassy sea,

anchored in a nestled watery cove,

where no swells rise to test the hull

of the vessel piloted by the mind.

 

How the voyages taken

by theory’s compass

can boast a sail on non-existent tides,

masts never challenged by any winds.

 

Oh sailor plotting course

where hands pretend

mariner skills have mastered the waves,

happily rested in the Captain’s chair,

charts awarded by those

that assumed the seaman inside

would ascend to grasp the steering wheel

once the hat of charge

was placed upon the heart.

 

So perfect is the cruise

spoken by the lips,

always having the dialogue of someday

uttered to impress,

not once chasing any current

nor leaving the dock,

unwilling to confess

suppressed fears

over drowning and sinking ships,

while using a life preserver

as a cushion

convinced it would never float.