Captain’s Chair

To sit upon a port’s glassy sea,
anchored in a nestled watery cove,
where no swells rise to test the hull
of the vessel piloted by the mind.

How the voyages taken
by theory’s compass
can boast a sail on non-existent tides,
masts never challenged by any winds.

Oh sailor plotting course
where hands pretend
mariner skills have mastered the waves,
happily rested in the Captain’s chair,
charts awarded by those
that assumed the seaman inside
would ascend to grasp the steering wheel
once the hat of charge
was placed upon the heart.

So perfect is the cruise
spoken by the lips,
always having the dialogue of someday
uttered to impress,
not once chasing any current
nor leaving the dock,
unwilling to confess
suppressed fears
over drowning and sinking ships,
while using a life preserver
as a cushion
convinced it would never float.