Getting a ship into a bottle is easier than getting a man out of one,
Trapped in a town,
In a house,
In a room,
In a mind,
Bobbing like a cork, a crows nest among the swell.
He see’s land then not, so puts his head back under for another shot.
The Sober Sextant defies blurred eyes,
Measuring fixed points of reality in liquid-like skies.
In the noise of the gale there’s the sound of a War
but the wind in the sail helps deaden its roar,
So it’s further and deeper out into the foam
his voice screaming madly the echo his home.
Until at its centre the voyage is done
and in the eye of the storm a battle is won.
© Wolfgar 2020