Withered Sailor

Cheerfully seated relaxed
Seashell Tavern glowed vividly
one blissful carefree afternoon
there sat an aged oaken man
shrouded in misty mystery
his beard chalk white snow covered valley
his eyes lanterns
a lighthouse drawing me in
wearing sea tarnished clothes
drapped in pearls of wisdom
drinking the wrecking tide of half mast moonless night
consuming and cursing stories of monsters swirling deep
traumatized perhaps by his men
being torn by cannonballs roar
pleading to dolefully heed
warning of what lays hideously hidden
out over beyond sovergn Prince Port
or blood strewn Guatamala
the sailor weaved awe
in my innocent construct of subtle reality
a storyteller paving golden roads
to adventures residing in small worlds.