Ballad of James Caird

Hopes are shipped on by the hour,
and resolutions will indicate death
either by passionate joy
and frozen steel,
pressing the eyes and consuming the real;
of a new chapter
or a new book.

a valley of choices.
a profusion of thoughts,

this is the world my friend. observe it carefully.
neither one man are alike,
and the only one option to part incessant sanity
is to go icebound;
make sure you do it with crafted choosing; no remorse.

can you fathom the contents to your colloquialism?
exposure will make the heart endangered hard;
like the crust of too much shedded affection,
the frozen mass encroaching under Endurance‘s bow;
our instincts call out:

three more months until the sun departs
and we are reminded of those demonic days of
two hours in quiet violet, the absent warmth and those grazing clouds
Van Diemen’s Land’s plantations, all to us then a pleasant charade;

the sound of the wind accentuated in brother Worsley’s harmonica
is the closest thing we’ll have to home.
the incense of oil stains our eyes in a fit of squints as I remember what we lost,
all for an undetermined premise;
you hear me, brother?

the last thing a sailor needs is to die in his cot alone,
and I am unsure that the road we chose is worth the back-break and heartache
for a plebeian pole.


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