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From the zenith, beyond the cloud's rooftop,
A voyager Doom approaches.
Her crew and captain await nightly crop,
my life, and my blood poaches.

"Be gone, specters- you thieves of life,"
I call to the darkness, awaiting retort.
Yet only the wind will give reply,
and give a kiss, of the pitiful sort.


Upon the horizon, the vessel mutates,
from mouse to mammoth,
from fly to freighter,
My death awaits.

Then, in an instant,
a clever ruse,
is then imagined,
it won't confuse.

I jump,
I plummet,
I become pulp,
but soon awake,
among the crew,
upon cloudy wake.
It is too late.
To no avail,
my plan,
the sole comfort I knew has failed.
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Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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March 30
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