The Old Man and the Sea

Through the Atlantic flew the skiff.

 

To its home at the harbor where I sat stiff.

 

For three bleak daylights and moonless nights.

 

I intently awaited and scanned the sights.

 

To and fro and for countless times.

 

 

 

And bear, though this mare napped out placidly and fair,

 

Brewing within it are but boiling breakers of despair.

 

And beware, though the wind might cunningly feign mercy,

 

Gusting gales are ruthlessly ripping ships with treachery.

 

However, it might only be my subjective sentiments 

 

That nag me to misjudge both mighty elements.

 

 

 

The tide remained low but never did my dread,

 

For the lost at sea and possibly dead.

 

“Don’t yield old man,” I said.

 

“Soon the gates of this horizon will cast a silhouette.

 

“And your fisherman’s patience will pay off its debt.”

 

 

 

Whether or not I will have a sweet or tragic end,

 

Is a story that only your time can tell.

 

For presently, I fear that my death is approaching very near,

 

And my fate is one too tragic to foretell.