Pelagic

We're here at the moment the breeze turns,

From landwards to seawards,

Swinging smoothly about the flagstaff,

Like the devil looking askance,

For those to pitch a deal at,

It was all no more than whispers,

Drowned out by the pain of existence,

But now the anchor's dragging;

And the ship slides out on the wind,

Into the glossy, ocean-wide currents,

Outside its rigid engineering tolerance,

The operating manual is unbound,

All its pages loosed in the wake,

Of this unhelmed vessel,

The crew have left their stations,

And made mad, and lacking sanctuary,

Desire a grounding as least worst,

This is the way the world turns.