But I’d rather you’d be
To my ship
Than the desolate wind
Tapping my sails,
Steering me away
Ships set sail in strong March,
Risking their worlds, die to be brave;
For summer’s broken hearts and old-soul songs:
Which to be passed and which to be saved?
They can’t have both, the hearts and souls;
One must drown, while one must rise.
Rum-drunk before the sailor, all the better,
But they know they’ll never make it out alive.
The summers always brought ‘em,
Those sincere and weathered autumns.
Where hardened sailors must turn stone;
Haul their anchors and sail to unruffled waters.
The seas are too rough for men
With a wild desire, and the heart of a boy.
The world can’t be merely predicated.
Tides wash broken vessels straight to shore.
But savage ships need anchors to bind them
To the soft and sandy ocean floor.
But does there really exist such a thing?
Waters bare of ridge and ripple, of billow and brine
Are like the love letters you never got the chance to write:
Inhibited anguish with nowhere to go-
Nothing but a waste of time.