Rolling seas of inconsequential madness
tumbling, turning, mixing, churning and
spewing out its contents into the salty sky of understanding

Shipman cometh, his solid brow scorning the impending shipwreck of emotion
Shipman, with his contemptuous eyes sees the rocky coast of his mainland

He thinks, rightly, home is where the heart is.

He’s been gone long, the years passing like the minute hand on a clock
He knows worlds that his mainland can never imagine, worlds inside a mind that is both wise and old

But his mainland fears him, his people loathe him,
his own kind shit on him with a blind fervor.

His heart, laden with burning contempt, he touches his blade. Cold, hard, shaped with both sweat and instinct. A deck hand shouts at him amid the spray of seawater. Shipman turns, watching the man walk quickly away when their eyes meet.

He smiles
and caresses his blade.

Home is where the heart is.

March 21, 2000

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