We carry with us our memories and our scars,
strewn across our beings like the clear night is, with stars
and like sailors in the wilderness, they give us a sense of who we are,
which direction we are going, where we came from and how far.

Drops in the ocean, we reach out for our anchor,
that thread that ties us to ourselves, our idioms and our rancour
but when the storm clouds gather on the night of the new moon
I tie myself to the mast, submissive to the jostling gloom.

I catch a glimpse through Lightning bolts, the darks fiery reprieve,
those scarry looming shadows of all the souls whom had to leave,
I'm stunned, abandoned to the whim of whipping waves,
on the tide of all those memories that have formed how I behave.

This is my new scar, but it's not one bourne from pain,
it's one that can sense the morning after midnight's rampant rain,
a mountain emerging from the ocean, to make it's mark in air,
before the wind comes round a-roaring and sinks it without a care.