By failing candlelight the written word,
scribed upon this page on Autumn eve,
with quill and ink, from the Poet's desk,
shall shake you from the depths of marble tombs,
wake your sleeping heart upon this earth,
then trumpet and resound what is my soul,
my breath, my pulse, my reason to survive.
"No greater love exists than mine for you."
The voice immortal, as the robin's song,
shall ring, reverberate, unto the wind,
and whisper there through all eternity.
and stirs the sable sea;
presents a solemn eerie sight
because it waits for me.
I board though distant memory
fuels quickly growing fears,
unleashing ghosts, who claim they're me, that lived in former years.
Cathedral bells toll heavy through
my life's divided acts,
as wraiths hold writs for all to view;
corroborated facts.
Soon autumn winds expand the sails,
I've tallied riches few.
The lighthouse shrieks our mournful wails,
me and my ghostly crew.
with winter and melancholia,
as I envisage how we two ships,
under a crescent moon,
once moved in sleek beauty
on placid swells,
but now pass stubbornly,
almost defiantly,
on raging, murky waters.
We lived,
you the Titanic
and I the Andrea Doria,
doomed from the beginning,
catastrophic at the end,
to gulp one last histrionic breath.
Yet, in that final ebb and neap,
we knew our song
would be swallowed by the sea,
our wreckage hurled
into its blackness,
and our ghosts,
prisoners locked in iron,
would become its treasures.
Brisbane, Australia
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