The Lost Ship

Upon the vast sea, in an hour so late
A ship would appear, sailing silent and straight,
Its many oars pushing the water to tear
A path that, in moments, no more would be there. The sails of its masts stood so gallantly high
Like mountains with snow-capped peaks scraping the sky
And portals above the oars gaped at the wind
Where mortars, their thunder cries, no more would send. Grim skeletal spectres of souls long since passed
Away from this world dwelt below each tall mast
All doomed to eternally wander at sea;
The prison from which they would never be free. From some long forgotten time, weathered by age,
Had this wooden craft felt much bloodshed and rage
And pain in the decks below where had been found
Those who had, to servitude, fully been bound. Thus, always would this ship be lost out at sea
And bound to its waters would it always be;
A ghost in its voyage of hopeless despair
In search of a port that would never be there.

by Frank Cortazo

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