AND the Beacon circles, taunting
while there's no hope of control
and the sails fly, whipping meanly
snapping their dying calls
while the masts bend under force of wind
and the foredeck madly rolls
and the sea pounds its passion
on the somehow fragile hull
AND a darker heart of blackness
its low crags but implied
reaches closer, some hellish gravity
that calls my vessel toward its spikes
that calls my reins so futile
and there's no hope of control
Shattered splinters sing the ships surrender
and the great wheel spins, unheeded
Spars plummet toward the scuppers
and lines once so noble now entangle
all in the travesty of once-majesty
while the Beacon circles, taunting,
still warning of what I cannot change.
O wild horse who is the world
in your mad rush to destroy us
you but sign your doom and ours
for you act in part our enemy
though sometimes you will gently
place your mane toward our hands
for simple stroke or carress.
But we will brook no enemy
nor accept our fate -
the fate of your precarious blessings
or worse: your curse -
for we are masters.
And though your seas may take me now
and silence me and hapless crew
a thousand men will come behind
and mark our doom across your face.
SO take me, cursed blessed mistress mother
I am Oedipus, Agemmnon, Theseus, Paris
I am your death as you are mine
and my bones but mark your grave.