It is near a dozen years, since a Father's voice
was heard.
In an effort to recall it,
I drifted into an induced slumber
on the wings of a large, sea bird.

My vessel thrown about by the violent waves of
the sea.
My hastening ocular movements,
drift me to
my dream.

The waves of fury grow, throw me back and forth, to
and fro.
At the ends of the Earth,
the club of Kublai Khan
smacks the waters of my soul.

The screech of the albatross, still just outside
of earshot.
I pull back my bow, aiming to
bring forth the voice
I've long forgot.

The shot plucked out a single feather, as the avian
climbed higher.
The screech I could not hear,
as the bird neared
the sun's fire.
 

But it's wings were affixed
by wax.
Falling toward the sea.
Bringing the voice, of my Father
back- - Is it coming back to me?
 

As I could almost hear him, my boat approaches
a dock.
My dream violently interrupted
by my own person
from Porlock.

Still worn around my neck, shamed that I
could forget.
Forced to live out life,
the candle of recall
never to be re-lit.