The Concubrine

A seafaring reflection

     It is a land of burning sands and mysteries abound. Stories of old and legends told, that there a phantom sound, buried in the islands away, of silver, jewels and that dear reader, of gold. Through brine and midday shine, there are those who will lose their way. To end up on the shores of forsworn beaches, to mind your heading, is what it teaches.
    The lines are taught; the sails are breathing with all they got. White caps in the distant tide, a last vision before some drowned and died. The rip of wind and rain, the cries of mannish pain; waves cut by ship like fighting soldiers slain.
    Throughout the day and into night, seafarers fight with mustered might. Avoiding rocks and devil swells, beneath the surface, the concubrine dwells. Singing a song of lively death; over the side and to the bottom, is where many have lost their breath.
    Through the sails, there is a wind that wails; a calling from oceans falling; land ho is where we are to go! The waters cease to halt, and storm will bear our fault, Poseidon makes difficult the glide and flow.
    For waters that appear blissful above may be quite unkind. Many a sailor cursed precaution and fared the seas to find, all their reason had been set aside. A good captain takes to dangerous waters for reasons other than to tame the tide, unless that good captain is a heady cur, a corsair or a b*****d deep inside. We find many men as brave and humbly prideful, as their sins are great and disposition spiteful.  

Quotas Verbatim of a poem taken from the captain’s log belonging to Cornelius Thornburg; while on an expedition for the esoteric texts: Book of Living Death (Codex Vitae Nix) and Book of Undying Breath (Codex Infinitae)