.

I can taste the brine dripping from the sails
It stings the eyes and dries the tongue,
robbing me of the essence of journey.
Broken is the sextant that leads,
as stars fade into black felt.

There has not been wind to cloth
in countless days
and the constant rolling
sets nausea on its course
  
I search the seas for even so much as a parchment
rolled carefully in an old wine bottle.
Something!
to offset the scurvy of a fruitless task 
but not even the songs of gulls can be heard
from the distance I find myself

the pantry is barren feeding my starvation
and imagination fails to satisfy the hunger
I wonder, even if I found sustenance,
could I get it past fallow cracked lips.