O Waking Ship!

Only the dead drift along passively

Hear the siren song pierce
the night
guiding tired and dead wooden ships
sailing to shores of meaning:
become wooden cogs,
pushing and being pushed,
to progress automaton of productivity;
scramble and fumble through dizzy daydreams
to fall and supplicate at feet of crystal clearness -
you are loved you mean something you are planned there is a plan
now beget servitude disguised as love
or burn;
scribbling dreams on paper to have
shaky hands crumbling
and discarding sweet nothings
dared to share with Destiny,
that malevolent Benevolence.

O sleeping ship
follow those fairy lights no more
and calls of siren w****s
and stumble through the scarce-trod
freedom path
cherishing nick and scrape from brambles
begotten by bare neglect
and brandish love and cynicism high,
blessed amulet, ward against chains
forged in heart and brain
shackling active mind to passive body
floating down river
Styx, monument to mortality

O waking ship, with mighty hull and woven sail
against the river Styx, eternally fight and flail