Yard Sale of Thoughts

Raise the anchor of the day,
a storm is fast-approaching.
The sea is soon a sick bay,
wounds worse than death imposing.

With tide's long amputation knives,
harsh rain's extensive morphine,
better to be buried alive,
beneath the rising waterline,

better to drop dead like flies,
then have thy mangling improvised
below a fabric's not been sterilized,
in a reckless, rolling surgery

that likely ends with phantom limb,
wrapped in gauzy, porous foam,
an unlikely recovery.
Yes, none of this is guided by precision.

Best steer clear the shifty place, 
which tucked away
is muffled by the deafening wind,
the seabed's dank infirmary.

©2024 | K.F. Hartless

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Cover Art: Ex Astris Scientia (artwork from Star Trek sickbay)