This is a scene to remember;
Wood walls repainted by smoke and ember,
the fire that peeled the paint
has been quelled and reined,
Its rider has spelled the end
Of eight dozen seamen.
Scent of gunpowder slick,
of the doused wick,
of the embers of all that we
have taken; we’ve taken such from the sea
The time comes it takes from us,
reclaims from us,
All we fought for.
All we fought against.
I confess, the fire within is dead,
one that never should have lit.
Spit and a sneer when I failed
Ignited me to engage.
I thought it was courage
it was but rage, misdirected.
The water licks my chin and I welcome it.
My soul feels so heavy.
I do not float.
I write this to those one-hundred
who will never receive what I can never send.
I only pray the waves whisper my word,
Where the winds once carried us to shore or away,
Where the fire beckons those who I failed.
I do not burn.
I do not bleed.
My hands are cut with splinters,
consumed by iron and steel.
I do not feel.
I see the flashing light of the port we will never reach.
It calls me.
I’m sorry