5.25

This morning, I dreamt of a wide-open plain, awash with the grey light of dawn. Standing in the midst, an impossible distance from me and every detail in perfect focus, stood my haunt. I have lived in her corpse for so long that I know every vein and sinew with the intimacy of a lover. And is that not what I am? This ship to me, and I to her? Scuttled a thousand miles from her nativity, stranded among my walks and vistas, awash in the soft waves of grass. A sea, perhaps, but foreign, strange. She groans with discontentment and I paint the grass an azure to match the sky. She lists with boredom and I lash the sails down and wait for the wind. I'm so enchanted with my captured princess that I fail to see the storm until it's upon me, the water sweeping across my limitless prison plain, her hull grating, aching, lifting, gone. Her savage wreck, once the pride of the land, now drifts to the sea unhindered, unaided, unknown.