the figurehead

cut a figure here instead, by means of hand, or heart, or deed, rise up from the waking dead, for all the cuts that you still bleed, the sea so vast and without end, depth's tones the cloak you wear, the travesties these lives portend, for what you've yet to bear, a plume of smoke in distant space, a harbour is no more, of life or hope there's little trace, for all the raiding hordes, gathered low at fissure's hollow, they're selling crowns back to the lot, the vacancies forever follow, unto oaths their hearts forgot, as lovers shifting in the bed, substance comes of lessons learned, figures swaying in the head, for all the ships we've yet to burn...