Magic

The sailor sets off
Letting the tide run
As sailors always have
Pointing the bow into the horizon
Which then becomes his destination.

Ports of call being only minor irritations
Distractions, complications
No gps dictating
No one’s fault if he sails off the edge:
It’s his journey, spawned of dreams
And if he so chooses
(Or is so chosen)
His life
His death.
To disappear is his expression
No grave, no flowers.

Beholding then,
As night clinks dully against day & wears on it,
While dead stars persistently shine
Black holes ever drawing
Smoothing the edges
Razors yielding
Grinding on and on
Stardust to stardust.

The sailor is indifferently cast in his part
Bearing his fruits
As tears of terror and wonder
Shore to unknown shore
Scorched by searing cauldrons
Frozen in place by the distances he has come
And his dark destinations
No charts can pretend to predict.

Only the whales can tell and lead
Its their magic.
Listen to their call:
There is only magic.