Dream on a raft

A balsam raft, with a mast and a Latin sail, I built for amusement on summer days on the inner sea,
but I found myself too far from shore, daydreaming is dangerous,
I had forgotten the dark undercurrent.
The shore is hazy; tomorrow it will have gone it’s just me and the blue outer-sea where fog banks are forgotten memories. I and the raft will end up on a blue painted plaster sea, in an empty bottle of *** that sits on a mantelpiece collecting dust particles.  
Till someone lifts it up to blow cigar smoke down its open neck; I’ll be invisible in the scented fog bank.
When the mist clears I shall be gone, the smoker, astonished, will ask:
“What happened to the raft and the man in the bottle? Fearful throw his cigar into the hearth, sell his scrap metal business, buy a dingy, leave his wife, set sail for the outer sea,
where the fly-fish fly like ospreys across the blue sea, he just might find; whatever he’s looking for
it ain't here