I sailed by Her starry eyes,
Ever mindful of Her fragile prize,
Elders whispered of Lost Things,
and called me a Foolish Man.
They sat in their mud holes,
Green rot, withered Souls,
“You cannot understand!”
I yelled at them.
So, I stole the Night and Ship,
I peeled away their fetid grip,
and fled into Familiar Unknown,
with Misted Idiot’s Grin.
© All rights reserved, 2016.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.