A blue moon, instead, casts a shadow on the back half of the land and life. Silhouetted tree tops writhe, reach and stretch for Him, rooted to their eternal mosh pits. They are too sparse to revolt, too many to free. Even the earthen soil is desiccated and exhausted, slowly crumbling, drifting, giving up into the sea. The marsh is begging for mercy. But I am welded toe by toe to this cast iron boat, collapsing under the weight of its dysfunction. The night seeps inside the boat from its crevices and cracks. It is cold, briny and its shadows swallow my feet, my ankles, knees, thighs. I am waist-deep in still and placid darkness. Like glass, the sea encases us all. Each breath breeds ripples – small, dissipating circles surrounding our bodies like fluid, pliable shackles illuminated by the pitiful remnants of the blue moon. A crane calls out in the obscurity as He turns His back on us and blots out the land.
I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul. And the captain goes down with the ship.