The Oarsman's Beads

Though damned, he'd not deride her, the sea, his lone provider,
but there's none who could survive her when she's a raging mad.
And he, in fear assuming, that death was surely looming;
comes the ocean's wrath consuming whatever hopes he had.

Above, the heavens rumbling, from thunder, hail a tumbling,
the squalls forever stumbling in the caustic spumes of brine.
Fought brave through the depressions though ripped of his possessions;
through angers and aggressions of a merciless design.

Rowed on with aspiration, somehow to find salvation,
an oarsman's obligation, faced the fury of the seas.
When smashed the boat's devotion, so fierce the maddened ocean,
he lost in the commotion where the tempest earns her fees.

Let not how he surrendered be that how he remembered,
his reasonings dismembered in the bedlam of the storm.
Grasping at illusions, at the helm of his confusions,
to steer the fierce intrusions through the wrecking of the norm.

With faith, he would survive her, pray God, come civilize her;
even He could not reprise her, His own beloved sea.
For she, in dark a business, not practiced in forgiveness,
there's not a colder witness when the ocean comes for thee.

And she, his life, his maker and now his undertaker,
when broke the final breaker, breaking hopes into regrets.
In gale, hail, his Glory BEs; tumbling skies and hoary seas,
from bead to bead, his rosary beads, he prayed into the depths.

by Tony Grannell

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