We Two Ships
My heart
beats heavy with
winter and melancholia.
As I envisage
how we two ships
under a crescent moon,
once moved in sleek beauty
on placid swells
but, now pass stubbornly,
almost defiantly,
on raging, murky waters.
We lived,
you the Titanic,
and I, the Andrea Doria;
doomed from the beginning,
catastrophic at the end,
to gulp one last histrionic breath.
Yet, in that final
ebb and neap, knew
our song would be
swallowed by the sea,
our wreckage hurled
into its blackness,
and our ghosts,
prisoners locked in iron,
would become its treasures.
