The Rising Sickness

Our blue mistress, one we all face,

Like a siren luring the young sailor to prematurely cast sail,

The excitement of that man knew no match,

His whole life ahead with an undercrewed boat.

Our mistress pulled the boat under, leaving the man defenceless,

She was relentless, thrashing him around,

Breaking him down without remorse,

Before throwing his body ashore,

He lay face down, white foam washing over, giving peace to the broken mind.

The young sailor showed only joy to those who knew him,

Scared of the rejection that comes with salty waters,

His disingenuine satisfaction led him to seek out our mistress,

Not a soul to help.

The best boats have many in their crew,

A mere man could not do the jobs of many,

Yet we force them to; shun them if their numbers grow,

Isolate them from our warm waters,

As we "would never understand".

An archaic view in our new world,

Being a servant of our blue mistress, ruining lives and futures,

Nothing is to be gained.

As I look upon our blue mistress, I see what once was,

I was a sailor lured out with my boat,

Captured within the waves, getting dragged under,

I look back with fondness upon the hardship I faced,

My little boat was as ill-prepared as I,

But despite the damage and breakages, we got back ashore,

I learned care and tolerance,

I've accepted her imperfections.

My days on land have been fair,

But I yearn for the sea,

I gave up life to learn and prepare; it won't be my legacy,

I will not be forced under, swept away by the icy cold water.