there is no drowned sailor here, captain just a bard steeping his sorrows in wine ***, and beer
and the poetics of heartbreak can only seem appealing for so long
like a sea captain who does not know how to be loved and a foolish bard who does not know how to stop loving
the bard drinks, wondering if he is an anchor and if he is of what nature
are his hands on the broad shoulders of the sea captain a welcomed sort of grounding, or like being held back?
the ocean always returns to the sandy shore in one way or another
and in this way the bard is like the sea a constant current
love as stream of consciousness and whispered into the hollow of the captains neck something like a litany, maybe always too much something or other to really be a prayer
besides, the bard is not a devout man only believes in what he can touch like a battered flask, the captains long and wind-swept hair,
or the frayed cuff of a long-coat draped over the bards shoulders on the coldest of nights
(and, well, if that long-coat belongs to the captain then itβs nobodyβs business but theirs)