Saturday, December 16

A Pirate's Life for Me

Why does it still feel like there's a large leaden anchor trapped in my chest, affixed to the center bone and slowly, constantly, chronically leaking metallic poisons into the very blood which passes through and flows directly to the shredded, tired heart that beats beside it? It made sense, weeks ago. Months ago. It's natural to get nauseous if the boat keeps rocking, but the boat made a home at the sandy bottom of the sea a long time ago. It tried hard. The starboard sails flapped desperately in the wind and rain and storm. They billowed and creaked and were weighted down with terrible amounts of salty moisture from the sea.

But the ship still sank.

Why, do you ask? How, with all of the sweat and blood of the starboard sails did the ship still sink? Because every port side mechanism, from the rotted planks to the moth eaten sails, was completely numb and unresponsive. It watched the starboard sails strain with the weight of the rain and tear in the gailing winds, and sat quietly and unmoving in the storm.

As for the captain, he sat alone in the crow's nest, watching as the ship fought with itself, each side opposed while rightfully working toward the same goal, and cried coppery tears into his pirate garb,

nursing the leaded anchor in his old weary chest.

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