Alas, ghost ships are real, real as any metaphor
is real, as any reality is really real.
Those are the vessels that skeletons carry
chained to the damp wood, fungi’s meal
that will burn slower when the boat catches fire,
if the boat fire catches,
if fire catches the boat,
or if there is any fire at all;
a quasi-fever kind enough
to help ghosts release the skeletons in the hold.
Those are the ghosts who possess
hungry skulls for gold,
gold in their lust,
in their teeth gold,
and of their tongues out gold spills
while the crossed bones are tired — crossed —
two — double-crossed —
all framed in black — waiting.
Those are the skeletons without will,
no muscle to fight the manacles
of smoky keys the foggy ghosts forge,
a reminder that after free doom comes,
and a remainder of what is done by the free;
ghosts of twisted minds by any toxicity
like twisted strands of hemp
to form a stronger rope
which the ghosts pray it will not break.
The course of those vessels is set
not by waves which the wood abate,
and the winds cannot be blamed to blow
against the ragged sails
that dress the masts stuck deep through the deck,
down where the bony vassals are said to live,
and the currents are warm or cold
only to those who feel.
The course of those vessels is set
by how many skeletons were locked aboard.
They can be chained to the port side
without any warranties the ship thus
to a safe port will arrive.
They can be chained to the starboard
and yet no haven will be on sight.
And the ghosts during their piracy
can sufficient bones collect
to sink the ships of their dreams.
