The sail heads back west.
Late March evening,
I wake up to alarms that’ve been reinforced with new batteries of might,
they ring with fright at the closest resembling sight of a deemed plight.
Behind the doors, and my back, a call is made.
The power of claims made by a familiar face,
to his craftsmen off-bay unbeknownst to him,
bring them back.
Blood was shed by the toy,
I heard the precursor warning but ignored.
The scar cast, mended only by the craftsmen in motion, on-board.
The ones held in obligation had come back from the market, defeated and tired;
they'd done enough to have their post sufficed.
The night shed cold showers that drizzled on my head as I went for a walk,
the foreign face was my laughing matter after I'd disowned and freed him.
Going on walks was the only time we could talk.
Behind my back again, the craftsmen came by, disillusioned by worry,
they held the toy tight.
Seeing the advantageous moment, the alarms,
so-fond of foreign misery, openly moaned and cried.
The toy, when mended, rested in silence.
The craftsmen reassured, thanked the One of their belief, all superior and kind.
The house house slept in horror, as usual the Alarm clocks and my sorry-self;
everyone terrorised by a different beast, and the territory it claimed within our minds.
Early morning,
as the nauseous hour came,
the craftsmen and people that were obliged,
stood straight to look briefly at each other one last time,
before heading to their jobs, and West,
in lowly, professional attires,
accompanied by the same horrors and sighs.