The Ship That Sails To The Bottom Of The Sea

The Ship That Sails To The Bottom Of The Sea

They laughed when we climbed the rusted plank,

barnacles biting at every blank

of space where feet should fear to tread,

yet still we followed where madness led.

No captain spoke, no compass turned,

the ropes were frayed, the lifeboats burned,

a map scrawled out in ale-stained ink

and rules that dared us not to think.

We weren’t made for silken sails

or wine poured deep from polished grails,

we brought our pasts in broken crates

and swapped them out for stranger fates.

The sea was black, the wind was low,

no stars above, no sun below,

just creaks and groans and whispered names

from sailors lost in older games.

Some say we chase a phantom shore,

some swear there’s less and less before,

but none will jump and none will flee

this cursed old ship beneath the sea.

The decks are warped, the mast is split,

but here we are, we live with it,

no dreams of land, no harbour call,

just wake and work and rise and fall.

We drink, we sing, we haul and pray

to gods that turned their heads away,

and still we float, we sail, we sway

to nowhere new, and never stay.

A mutiny? No one dares.

We’ve all got ghosts, and ours are theirs.

So ride we must, and ride we will

through waters cold and deep and still.

Don’t ask what waits, just let it be.

All aboard the ship to the bottoms of the sea.