All Dead


The wind forsaken derelict amid
a vast, wide sea by little waves is tossed.
No way it breaks toward isle home,
nor off to lands uncharted yet,
nor sinks to find an end.
Her name is weather-marred,
forgotten print
no one will read.
It’s dead,
long dead.

One winter’s storm, when wiser fools harbor,
her captain ventured forth into the gale,
his love to seek beyond the dread.
Her beauty called above the wind,
but failed to guide him true;
for great the tempest waxed
and she silent
the captain doomed.
He’s dead,
long dead.

At times others will sail by her
—at night or day she’ll sail by them—
and cross themselves in fear.
They know the stories told:
His broken heart still beats.
The sound, they say,
will drive you mad.
It beats,
still beats.

The story goes a man once tried
to board the ship and win its haul.
With face as white as snow
the gangplank he retread.
He motioned then
that he would speak:
It beats,
still beats.

So, on he told the tale:
nothing but bones resides
within the hull,
say what still beats.
Then jumped,
he jumped.

That sailor’s suicide,
so oft recalled today,
soon birthed the rule
that none should board;
else jump,
they’d jump.

Alone she sails;
and little waves
will rock
and rock.

They never take
her anywhere,
but rock
and rock.

She’s dead,
all dead.

He’s dead,
all dead.


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