poem

The Lost Sailor

a stirring voice beckons,
a phantom within a dream.
as i pencil my musings
the voice channels itself
moving deep within me.

laughter quickly vanishes
to reflecting upon the movement of the sea,
to the house
that no longer carries
childhood dreams.

the voice constantly searches vacancies to occupy,
from passing through stations
to platforms holding onto memories.

I attest that this is my screenplay,
but am I the playwright
or cast as the lead
at someone else’s hand?

and the nature of it:
a subtle arrogance,
brilliant confidence
with a touch of sadness
longing for ease.

is my gullible empathy a curse
or is this phantom character
penciled in verse
simply a lost sailor
strolling through life’s corridor?

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