We commence human life as nescient,
handheld sugar babies nursing amply at the breast.
It is there, at no behest, we indulge ourselves–basking in
the flow of the nipple with impunity.
With mother at the helm–It’s a fool’s paradise. Peaceful,
sunny, warm with an endless supply of copious milk,
there is no cause for concern.
Until an indifferent storm settles upon the bow, shakes the
crew, shatters the stern. All hands on deck against
the insufferability of a horde of waves.
The tender softness of breast is replaced by a cold
calloused hand. Hands that once assured an inviolable cradle
have now become a battering at sea.
Man overboard! Man overboard!
There is no one at the helm. The captain has not gone down
with the ship. They have not perished with the vessel, but we
have been left here alone.
Waterlogged with the heavy burden of grief, we aimlessly drift about.
Tasting the briny bitterness of life as it splashes us in the face,
it speaks to us a hopeless abandonment at sea.
© Benjamin Thomas
This is prompt provided by the poetry site Dverse Poets.
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