My Letters seem to have missed their mark,
Floating by the bulls-eye,
Without a first glance.
They fall out of my hand and suddenly
The flame of consciousness is breathed into their sails,
Igniting their hulls of our ancestors,
Burning away tradition and the past.,
Cauterizing that open wound of memory.
My protests are a dance done for Homer’s Cyclops,
I mimic the song of those wave-beaten sirens,
To pull “my” vessels back to shore,
With hope in mind and resin in hand to repair those cracks,
Where the messenger boy was slipped through and swallowed by the drowning darkness.
Through a deal with the East wind,
We manage to push and pull my armada ashore.
But before the sailors have a breath to tell their tales,
Map out their conquest of the unknown,
The wrath of Poseidon swelled up,
Throwing our explorers far from their warm taverns and soft women,
Dissolving their dreams of their own bed and the comfort of being-at-home.
The eager crowd, now anxious, bears witness to the usurpation of their certainty and complacently bow before the new king of Absurdity at the spear-point of his army of Angst.
We only caught a glimpse of the sailors,
Only heard a whisper and the painful roar of the sea.
Are we certain?
Did we hear them?
Did they even speak?
Only they know for certain.
The sea is alive with noise.
We’ll send another search party,
Because we can’t risk to lose the treasures in their hold.
And so we did.
Just like before,
Just like again.