"The wind is still in our poop..." -Edgar Allan Poe, 'MS. Found in a Bottle.'
A wandering sailor barred to pen thought to truth's noble light,
this tale reads incomplete for lack of bravery, my mood darker than this night.
These shoulders weighed heavy, my madness come undone,
Oh, Father, forgive me, there is no rest for your son.
I confess, 'twas I who spilt blood of Falcon and crew,
my rage all consuming, companions I did slew.
for they slumber on ice crystals from head to bag of sennegrass, stuffed,
by this tongue and ash whip lashings, they truly were snuffed.
Scott, Wilson and good mate, Birdie Bowers,
three bodiless heads, one left for the ravens, who guard London's Towers.
Shadows upon flakes of a coppery tomb,
all logic bids farewell to be replaced by one's mortal doom.
For it was Simoom's turn to become man's feast,
and I could not bear to look towards future, nor beast.
My four-legged comrade shall not suffer for man's egoed quest,
so, by these consequences, I, Delbert Crammit, shall never rest.
Endless diamond dust, broken by scarlet trails of man and beast who bleed,
by their canine teeth of yellow, our fates decided on desert ice, cleaved.
Legends carried on Australis of frozen flights of glory,
myth rises amongst vapors of this false Antarctic story.
Shrieks from phantom ponies carried on Kabatic wind,
forevermore pursued by their once savior, who has sinned.
*Oh, don't you love that Poe line? Just an homage to Poe. Ugh. I may revise, later. : )