9489. ROWBOAT, ROWBOAT, TAKE ME AWAY

ROWBOAT, ROWBOAT, 
TAKE ME AWAY
I'd heard it said, in some sort of a

darkness, echo-chambered, 'without

a doubt we sometimes eclipse our

own dreams with reality.' We do

not, and it is not. Somehow it feels

like Christmas around me once again.

The weather outside the window is

not cold at all, as this thought would

need it to be. Yes. It is temperate now.

Something better to live with. Not

'intemperate,' and what a simple

difference is that between words.

The rest of this ordeal should be

so easy. I am about to put a boat

into the water. I want to do it silently,

but water bends only so much, and 

eventually, the surface tension 

breaking, you get the noise that

others can hear. Blackbeard, once

sneaking away in stealth from a

confinement, told me that as he fled.

Rowboat, rowboat, take me away!

For 17 days  -  up until now  -  I have

been held in this stinking jail : though

now I can say 'that' stinking jail for

I am no longer there. Like Blackbeard,

I have escaped in secret, into some

sundry night. Where dead men tell 

no tales. Where the raft of the lethal

is already sinking. And where I snuck,

so in silence and with stealth, that

even my success would have made 

now Blackbeard smile at my

deliverance; self-made, and

done to a fine perfection.