The captains have sunk down
to the level of rats.
The armada slaves have been left
to row for themselves,
the sails too thick now
with the blood of those
thrown overboard,
trapped on a course
not of their choosing.
There will be no vote
on how best to stay afloat.
The stars have been realigned,
needles removed from their compasses,
all the maps pissed over
by a drunken admiral.
Deserter rats,
when you eventually wash up,
no shore will want you.
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Reblogged this on reubenwoolley.
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