The wind has died down

and the seas

are calm

inside the eye

of this storm.

 

He has struggled through this maelström,

fighting

the waves

and the spray

and the winds. His sails

have been torn, his oars

smashed, not that

he’d have the strength to row

anyways.

 

Through pockets of clarity

in the clouds to the east,

he sees land

waiting for him, so close.

He doesn’t know if it’s real

or just an illusion born

from his own worn out

mind.

 

So he ties himself

to the mast and prays

to whatever gods still exist

and waits—eyes open,

heart waning, fending off

the allure of despair, the sweet embrace

of a numb oblivion—

 

for what’s

coming, for the fate

over which

he has no

control; waits

for this maelström

to erupt

or subside.

 

 

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