Comes a point in the voyage
the wind dies in your sail.
Even that special friend
in crow's nest has nothing
new to say, and all those
pastimes that give identity
no longer shine as lighthouses.

Anxious, you contemplate a
different course, but your
compass spins and sputters
with every view, till it
lies deflated on the deck,
and through telescopic mind,
there lies continental
futility; realization, no
matter the circumference
of jibbing and tacking,
you're happiest at home.

That place where circular
exercise rhythms the mind;
enjoyable habits charting
your existence, extend
over the horizon on every
side, and though occasionally
the diversions languor,
you're thankful for their
giving substantial direction.


© 1993

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10/06/2014

Posted on 10/06/2014
Copyright © 2025 Chris Sorrenti