By Andrew R. Duckworth
Eyes set upon the sea,
Bleeding thoughts of safe return.
And there was a time
When old men begged for death,
Seeing their time had come,
But that death would come gently,
With soft feet in a safe room.
But there are no safe rooms
On the ragged, endless waters.
Into the deep those eyes might go
And examine the horrors that await
A man with undetermined fate.
With a swift arm, the waters pelted
Against the side of a large ship,
Waiting to be taken apart
By the prying fingers of danger.
Dipping forward and dipping back,
The odds were stacked against him,
The man standing at the helm,
The captain, the leader,
Sipping a cup of wrath,
Experiencing life’s aftermath.
Gentler souls taking shelter
Under the deck might cry out
In red hot agony,
Their feet forced against hot iron.
The horizons showed no hope,
The winds wailed in the horror
Of the ship that it would make sure
Never knew land again.
That captain slept while wide awake,
But even the sleeping soul
Cries out for safety.
But the devil’s wicked wings
Would clip those sails apart
And haunt the hopeful innocents
Waiting for the water to rise
Upon their barren feet.
The masts fell, one by one,
Into the battering stormy sea,
And eyes looked upon the sea no more,
Swept to the water where he fell
And sank to the ocean floor
And the demons that awaited
Carried him to a more horrible hell.
Those souls still trapped
In a wooden grave cried out,
Never abandoning the need for hope.
So the storm clouds parted,
And rays of sunlight shined
On the drenched wreckage.
The sea turned calm
And the angels swept
Picking up the souls in their arms.
Their wings lent feathers
To a useless ship
And turned that vessel anew.
And the passengers,
Once screaming in horror,
Wept with joy at the winged ship,
A vessel home.
Poetry of Andrew Ryan Duckworth 