A Black Sail

…and then the Black
Sail filled with tepid
wind, sent from the lips
of Hades himself.

He wished for this ship
to bear him our pall,

lashed tightly to the mast,
its tatters whipped,
salted,
in strips,
as we crawled

‘gainst the stillwater.

Untouched by the breath
of the shroud-keeper,

He,
lurking in the depths,

feasts,
sating his hunger

on the dying sailors
that cry under
the black sail,

thirsting

against regret and wishing
for fresh water.


© CGT, 2019.

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