He gazed at the sky in its entire wrath
and at the sea churning below.
The stars nestled above life’s fury
were too far away to shine upon his brow.
If he flew through the tempest of dreams,
his wings might tear and end his flight
And if he dived into the fathomless deep,
He might be devoured by the eternal night.
A thousand voices had whispered
that there was naught in the unknown.
But the world that he was familiar with,
didn’t feel like his own.
He was swept away like a mote of dust,
by the mighty brooms of fate.
And on he flew like a dainty dandelion,
shedding his hopelessness, fear and hate.
Both the storm and his starlit soul
wrestled for endurance...for survival,
The storm died, the soul survived
and he rejoiced at the suns arrival.
The wind had hit him incessantly,
Fragmenting all his weaknesses.
All he was after toil and turmoil,
was a beautiful, hard rock without any recesses.
Long after, lying on the last isle,
like a statue sculpted out of stone,
He was glad that it was him, not the others,
that had received a battering from the unknown.