When the world finally dusts
off the covers of your journals,
it will keen:
the groaning of the ships they sail their hearts in
against the razortip whitecaps you composed.
When the planet finally wakes
up to uncover your musings,
it will teem:
the scortched-earth campaign you waged on their hearts
yet wagered they would return again,
Or you could give them
a bit of a head start.
I know how tempting it is to belittle your work
because it is yours.
But nothing could be further from the strength
with which you have been laboring at these oars.
You are farther out here than you think,
only because you haven't had much time up on deck.
But this vessel you share passage in
has cleft a wake of wrecks.
There is home on the other side.
No purpose pretending there is no purpose.
Now write. Now dive.
Or risk pretending you thrive
at the surface.
There is power in the one you know.
Power in the words
he lets you have.
There may be Wrath in every syllable.
But there is Love
in each paragraph.