They told me if I was going
to make it from this island,
I would have to venture
offshore as they did,
into the sea
where artists must become mariners.
It’s deep and vast and foggy
and you can’t tell if the other
wayfarers are pleasure craft or pirates.
A dinghy could come off as a racing sloop,
a canoe as an aircraft carrier.
a corsair’s galleon seem a bass boat.
We could pass each other,
in the misty mythic day or night,
not knowing the other was there
or maybe not even caring,
though we should, sharing
these winds and seas as we are,
a community of solitary sailers.
If I dropped away, just sank
beneath this sea of zeros and ones,
leaving behind naught but
a slick of tweets, a wake of follows,
would any of the other vessels
In this fleeting fleet even know?
Would they even care?
It’s becoming quite scary
to brave the swells and storms
crewless and without a chart
to guide me to a place
I don’t even know I’ll reach.
Why’d I think I could leave