We sail in the morning.
Three flags are the warning.
These crossbones are eloquent.
I’m on for the ride.
Small ship on a rough sea.
This life is not for me.
We rock on a precipice.
The yaw will decide.
I feel like Edgar Allen Poe.
Into the maelstrom we must go.
And as we swirl I understand
I should have never left dry land.
Next time I’m prompted to explore
I’ll look inside and nothing more.
For there is naught beyond the skin.
Meanwhile, I spin. I spin. I spin.