Captain

Saline spirals through decrepit veins of a lecherous Captain

Longing to obtain certainty, on a search for sanity,

To become only static and stagnant 

While placebo effects took their toll more than effectively 

Forcing everything he finds down his trachea

Some sort of deplorable self-medication

A means of obtaining acceptance of himself

With his raunchy speech and lazily flailing limbs

His incumbent gut, 

It all held a trifling air

Holding onto all lost providence, 

All possessions born into his palms,

By him, for him,

With striking similarities to the sears on his forearms

Cloaked by some colloquial rags,

Vibrant enough to be seen across several seas

He was fervently endearing and utterly indiscreet in his bustling gait

His tattered old flag heralding exactly who he was, 

Represented all he aspired against, conspired against, 

Remembering some utter illusion of wealth, 

Of a throne of which he fled.

Where rubies adorned his head.

Nothing was rightfully yours when it came to living through an ongoing tempest 

An orange sky by dawn and pink by candlelit skies

So inane and mistaken in any luxurious life

From ships to alleyways you walked,

Completely drawn and disgusted, 

There was no place else to be, 

No place to dream

Affluent in his head

Truly trudging in shallow waters 

Delusional prosperity hurtling toward fifty coalescent possibilities 

A function of overwhelment with overlapping incoherence 

If only all emotion wasn't so scarce, so deeply buried,

Located beneath the frontal cortex, 

Far enough to inhibit itself from surfacing

Intensity took a dive with serotonin.

A mildly concerning hoarder of misery,

Still kept in a jar far out of reach. 

A plank allocated to such insignificant space just above the ocean,

Just above the salt you've bathed in, grown up beside.

Glowing, bursting with unrightfully place prophecies.

Placed between the sweat and calloused crevices of your feet.

Discerning whether or not it's a suitable position for you to blow

Captain, stop your thought, your contemplation.

Hold your unwilling stance

Coupled with belittling glowers in no general vicinity

Through your dirtied hazel eyes,

Salty from an unconscious existence.

Nostalgia comes pouring from the glands of a senile old man.

Learned and forgotten, dismembered and ungracefully pleased.

Blessed with an insatiable urge for ash, fallen from his fingertips.  
When in the end all that came was perplexity and a mild feeling of deja-vu.