Through the seas you wage,
headed toward the path known to me,
but others forsake the decisions
of my ultimate end.
The waves of their mediocre acceptances
crash into the worn paint,
chipped from the days of my attempts.
Deep within this toiled sea
lies an island.
One that few will find,
many sink.
Tumbling to the corralled bottom of
their own disdain.
Yet the destination can be found
by those seeking their triumph
over the seas of personal anguish.
There in my depths, a blank page.
It sits upon a wave worn rock,
waiting to be taken away on a breeze
as the boat separates the sand,
slowing it as a wave fills the stern,
sand and foam scrape my feet,
bare and calloused from the splintered planks.
The water pulls me back to the sea,
a corner of the page flutters softly.
Slow walk forward pulls me south,
but on the shore, a blank page waits.
On the shore, a captain who never was
can find salvation in a dream.
THE WRITER'S CONQUEST 