Approaching low these frothy ancient walls
this wooden haul goes groan in hesitation
plays sunken sounds abaft of sodden planks
against wet, wind whipped sheets, slippery rope

Pilot eyes a narrow channel to this coffin's drift
a wheel in fate's hand, spun for all hands deck
one cold sea surge, after another, vaults over
sailor's gritting teeth with sea tears on pale cheeks

Fathoms drowned, as currents swell in rhythmic dance
Davy Jones awaits for those to decompose by chance
a gold doblón, a flipped up sueño, when maelstrom ends
drifting in lines of seaweed lime, or port of heart's content


-cec