Monsoon Of Gloom

The winds around the tiny ship were growing.

The captain stood at the helm all alone,

As Poseidon`s breath was violently blowing.

The coward crew had abandoned ship

In a frivolous attempt to swim home.

Precipitation, from the clouds, began to slip.

The true fury of the tempest had, only begun to show.

From aft to forecastle, the vessel was tossed;

As the savage waters, cast the steel hull to and fro.

The captain, as a first mate, survived A Shipwreck before

(The experience, on his soul, was eternally embossed),

So he held his course; although he was still unsure…

… Of what the payment for this journey might be.

He looked up at the sky, and was filled with uncertainty;

As thunder from the black, flashed above the sea.

The captains` disposition was dedicated and humble,

In his heart he fought any sort of self-sustaining vanity;

So his commitment to his mission did not stumble.

The fact, that his own life (to him) was of little value or meaning;

Caused him to steer the ship further forward –

Deeper into the adverse waves, rumbling thunder, rain streaming.

Some might say he was suicidal, and others that he was bold,

But as the craft, into the squall, moved toward –

In his heart the captain felt (of his life) totally indifferent and cold.

The deluge pouring from the clouds was now increasing,

And the raging typhoon had grown – more vicious;

Still, the captains` progress was not close to ceasing.

The wash, now consuming the deck, continued to swell;

And the voyage began to appear - more pernicious –

Yet, the commander feared neither death nor hell.

Doubts of survival began multiplying, rising in the interior;

He felt an intense fear of the craft becoming overtaken,

As Zeus and Poseidon wrought calamity on the exterior.

The pilot knew others were depending on the cargo

(And their reliant trust, could not afford to be forsaken),

Which resided in the holds down inside and below.

The worn vessel was no longer under the skippers’ control –

But, some strange spirit kept the boat afloat and advancing;

Pressing through the behemoth blasts, and each riptide roll.

Suddenly, the man saw ahead, a developing tremendous tidal wave.

He knew that: he and the ship, with destruction were dancing;

And that this last step, enveloping, would drag them to the grave.

In a series of flashing moments (which felt like an hour) –

With the moan of aqua and steel; the ship was submerged in the brine,

By the flood of pressure, from Poseidon` pure power.

Held within the savage drink, there was no air generated;

Sounds and sights were distorted and deafened. After some odd time

Had passed, with the captain in this condition, he suffocated.

The captain felt the life leaving his body, and felt a new fear.

The fear was not due to his current form, now passing;

It`s source at first, like his vision, was occult – and unclear.

Soon however, the reason became evident in his dying mind –

He thought about the souls, with their agony surpassing;

He felt terrible, a new source of hope, they`d have to find.

His sight, in death, grew dark as night, then was bright white.

He was lost in utter stillness – an emptiness beyond the storms` violence.

The place reminded his spirit of staring directly into sunlight.

Formless, he drifted, not feeling a thing – beyond absolutely numb

He attempted to discern a direction, in this realm of light and silence;

And soon felt as if he was falling asleep, to this feeling he`d succumb.

In a moment his vision rejoined the obsidian, and flesh he was feeling.

Opening his eyes, he saw the celestial sphere – the terrestrial ceiling.

He felt the sunshine, and heard the cry of a gull, as he awoke from the lull.

The five senses (at first dull), were detected by the receptors in his skull.

Slowly standing, erect on the deck, he looked ahead and saw port and land;

How he and the battered ship pushed past the tempest, he couldn`t understand.

The only thing which the commander knew, in his heart – through and through;

Was he hoped that the vigorously contested cargo brought joy – to at least a few.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker