A SHIP MAKING ROUNDS

Fading out, and having lost grip -my connection with life collapses:. While being pulled through the barrier of reality, with my being transmuted, this is how my existence lapses. Neither porthole, nor gateway across from which the ebbing surge of my soul passes Then, places Man to trudge a solitary, thankless path for which only the guardian of Asgard’s solemnity surpasses. Claimant not, am I, to his esteem of Keeper, Watcher, or Chief of his Charges In eternal, solid silence I start to drift; self-contained - solitary. One amongst many ghostly barges. Only destined to allow time – time to be the only force Conveyance non-corporeal of unmeasured strength and source. Ever grinding, slowly abrading the nothingness of a friction free course. Only to vaguely glimpse that port of call for it is all, and for every sailor – the singular choice. Made by the fabric weaver, between this and the other realm Never will there be such a vessel built with a helm. To list violently in a waterless swell, no mast to drop canvas, not even an oar of diseased Elm. To influence this passage, perilously pensive, but with only one; potentially designed to overwhelm. This place of rudderless ships, in forced solitude Adrift an ethereal sea, upon which a hurricane gale registers zero amplitude. Perhaps, a fantasy musing from the oldest of evil; Psyllia and Charibdis dream peacefully. Only occasional – other phantom glimpses. It all seems put together too carefully. Charon, pilot across the river Styx; the absence of God in She-ol; or the nothing of Purgatory These inner-dimensions, we were all made believe to be transitory. It all seems to be amalgamated in the compensatory, From childhood Sunday stories, we have all heard a similar allegory. Whether to truly have the soul spend time for sins non-repent Or, to test fortitude, perhaps take measure of character, to this place I have been sent. The only visions I see: The gateway from whence I came, and this stormy sky – fragile as a tent. Without my true love, left behind the gate to finish life, I feel no reason to pay this unfair rent. That distant port-of-call, point of embarkation, or faint glow from the gateway I now approach The maelstrom upon which I ride, a stream of current before me - into others does encroach As with any test made by the maker, a measure of strength and will this must also be To see if by the side of my true love is the motivation to set me free. Through undulating membrane between this, and that, reality I see knelt beside my grave the left-behind widow, who has only comfort from spirituality. The only true thing I have ever felt here - a pull, a yearning toward that port-of-call: Gravity. My vessel suddenly just did shift; could this be free will, or shared commonality However, as seems lit from within, if painted by the masters, or imagined in dreams . My point of origin began to light the void. Intensity growing, I believe by free will’s means. Suddenly, I find my stance weary; knocked off my feet. Only by my devotion it seems A great rogue force does push me closer, a compelling magnetism the gate sends by beams. Pushed ever harder, again as I go around. I see my destination and know where this void has deemed me bound. Only one other ghostly barge did I see sail a similar course. Its passenger couldn’t hit the mark; the ship was shattered soon thereafter with blinding force. How unforgiving this test. Merciless and cold the architect who wishes to measure the spirit. Truly, this being does not know the depth of true love, or how far humans will go to know it. This shall be my only chance; no other opportunities as I close distance to the gate, brightly lit. If I cannot, with this form of no mass, leap and land squarely on the wharf, upon the rocks I’ll hit. Approaching ever so faster, farther away than imagined; I brace and run with silent scream. With grand stretch-of-stride upon the deck, I bound up to the side rail; flying as if in a dream. I land upon what I know to be stone, then see what makes the bright gates glow. Heaps of gold. Coins in stacks of two – paid by the dead for the boatman we (thought to) know. Rising to my feet, I register the clarion ring of gold coins; high pitch sounds. With horror I look to see – My true love with self-inflicted glee, Ghostly. Bloody – blindly race past me… …only to find a ship making rounds.