Flowers

A whimsical encounter of most unusual fashion on the high seas.

Golden and blue, concealing a darker hue, both ethereal and true.

Fluttering in the mists; a fleet with no crew, all quarters dark - save one twist.

A resplendent aura illuminating the unfathomable, forsaken mist.

Radiantly imperfect, beautifully raw. A beacon of hope dropping the jaw.

Dancing wave-tops do whisper a tune, given breath by the heart of the moon.

With a quiet line, but barely divined, through the mists the light did preside.

 “Whom there seeks safe harbor? Long has it been since I've had a neighbor.”

Resplendent did the radiance grow, at one with the song of the deep below.

A celestial presence beyond speak, gentle though anything but meek.

 Imperfect grace brightening the night, though the ocean warned of a mournful plight.

 

“Draw closer!” the captain did cry; “Accursed siren!” the deckhands decried.

For a shattered fleet they did spy, pleading in unison, “It’s a lie!”

But the captain stood a realm apart, effulgence piercing his hardened heart.

A celestial hand breached the hull, and for him the world was null.

Despite the ships he did command, none before cared to understand.

And in place of sailors to direct, his heart awoke to the hope that one might yet accept.

The song rose up, he thought with joy, for his tottering heart sensed no ploy.

 

His vessel was an armored craft, having endured many a blast.

With hull and cannons strong in factum, few gained access to his sanctum.

An awoken heart, so isolated, such existence he now thought blighted.

To the sailors he commanded, “Lower the shields!” now demanding.

 

Walls of steel and iron slowly receded; waves lost in song, quite conceited.

The song of the ocean grew to envelop, the greatest storm he’d seen develop.

Amidst the torrent of air and water, the light dazzled without falter.

The captain dove heedlessly into the light, celestial tendrils of warmth reaching out in the night.

She swiped his soul in a sudden fashion, ever the swift assassin.

 

Some days later, a man awoke upon a distant isle.

Blue and gold flowers blossoming around the sandpiles.

He gazed skyward upon the lunar ring, and dreamt of eternal spring.

Author's Note

First poem I've actually written, grammar is sacrificed at times for the sake of flow. The last verses are the most pertinent. Can one survive without a soul?