© Christopher Raine



The air falls out of his heavy lungs
Sails flagging to a gasping breeze
Declining in all of his measure and wit
Succumbing to his peculiar disease
A carrack, destined to run aground
Upon the dead coral of his own whims
Sailing to the place that no longer exists
With a heavy ballast of whisky and gin
He cannot chart for tomorrow
And today is beyond his means
A cartographer to a setting red sun
A privateer of sunken old dreams