I find myself adrift upon a sea of faceless names
and nameless faces flowing
in a wave of information
that erodes and overloads my poor old mind.
Drift far enough and long enough the sea all looks the same;
the hard edge of horizon flat-lined
out before my sun-strained eyes
and not a port or harbor can I find.
I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.
A mile or so to starboard there's a sailor lost as you;
another heading for the sunset
with a full wind hard abeam
and that's what folks mistakenly call free.
She's called six ways from Sunday and forever passing through.
There is no freedom to be had -
just set an open course for home
or some reasonable facsimile.
I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 7:02 PM UTC
I find myself adrift upon a sea of faceless names
and nameless faces flowing
in a wave of information
that erodes and overloads my poor old mind.
Drift far enough and long enough the sea all looks the same;
the hard edge of horizon flat-lined
out before my sun-strained eyes
and not a port or harbor can I find.
I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.
A mile or so to starboard there's a sailor lost as you;
another heading for the sunset
with a full wind hard abeam
and that's what folks mistakenly call free.
She's called six ways from Sunday and forever passing through.
There is no freedom to be had -
just set an open course for home
or some reasonable facsimile.
I hope to throw my anchor down
upon some distant shore,
but I won't know till I get there
that I will not have to travel any more.
(c) 2002 Joel M Frye
Request permission to use this poem