Saturday, May 6, 2017


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.

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