There lay a story of a lonely sailor
Taming the tumultuos sea
Taming the vivid monstrosity;
Nay a feat for any but he (outlandish it may seem).
A story follows him
Written in the foam of the waves,
Telling of a young boy
Whom grotesquely dies every day.
Not the gallows nor a plague
Awaited his weary soul.
Instead he died in his dreams, such a perpetual nightmare,
Unsure of where it borne,
Oh what a terrible ire to see.
This young boy fled for his life
In the day which always succumbed to the dreaded night,
He ran to the end, ran as if the wind itself raced he, and over again
He jumped into his labrynthian head,
Playing mechanic to his own turmoil,
Such perpetual dread.
Should you meet him
Ask him his story;
Question him thusly
To reveal the adventures he claims lore.
Oh but the things he could speak
Should you chance meet him at his peak.
He proclaims a desert of a thousand suns,
And yet here drowns in a sea of limitless leagues.
He fights gallantly in the night,
Struggling to stay alive between the crest of the Sun and the fall of the stars,
(Aye the stars he peers at,
And the same stars he fears at,
Sailing silently this wayward son).
Though not ask him where he runs
For weary he will grow and then gone,
A raven in the night, he takes flight,
Swiftly averting his eyes once more,
As many times before and forever more,
Fighting the current back to the sea,
This lonely sailor, forever this ghastly shadow follows he.