The Good Old Sailor

Have you ever seen the lighthouse gleaming through the thick old glasses

Or, how about the creased futile arrow through "his" nebulous eyelashes,

Hypnotized by the crimson red moonlit night

Off the shore singing its Lullaby.

The scintillating brilliance dancing with its ballerina,

Had engulfed the Albatross,

Once soaring high in the blues

While the shadowy appearance of "his" stick,

Stood as the "question mark",

Penetrating into the undulating terrestrial enclave,

Whistling out the hanging honorifics of carcasses,

From the lands of Waterloo.

Measuring the cold wild sea, the seafaring good old man,

With "his grand" Mariner's Compass,

(indebted to the Magician Columbus)

Was attired in the cloak of "his" golden globe.

The overladen steps (once adventurous)

Had heaved the "present" under the coral reefs,

Widening his chest against the luminous Northern Star

(was now shrunk against the face of the stones rolling, echoing from rock to rock;

And the rolling stone is dead and no more)

Paving his path, disappearing behind the lighthouse,

Pouring down the country song into the edible mollusks of the turbulent sea,

Flashing against the wrinkled surface of holy madness ( with which his shoulder once stood firm and unbound)

The good old matelot,

Sat with the Abalon shells in the night with the natural jewels (fireflies),

Contemplating the canvas with "his" oil pastels 

Being lost in his past into the Emerald of thrill and phew.

The white light racing through his hoary petals (hair),

And here was the night (wrapped in its own interpretation of peace)

Ran to unfold the case of scarlet journeys,

Welcoming the baby faced dawn in quiesce.

But, here the good old Jack Sparrow

Was ready to release the earthly breeze,

Which had rippled the water and flapped the flags of yachts,

In the search of the correct parallel,

Lured in the galactical ecstasy.