Crested waves playfully toss the ship as frigate birds soar on for hundreds more miles, seemingly never to tire as tailwinds carry them to their destination much like our ship, albeit guided by headwinds and tradewinds instead.
We make port, and while I wont deny the occasional fancy the oceans mystique has a way of guiding my thoughts back to you. It stirs the feelings and bristles the senses, sea salt, flotsam and jetsam, makes me want to rebel.
Unlike the mystical drawing power of a fire that tames my spirit and calls me to land with hope of seeing your eyes cast in its soft glow under the borrowed light of a full moon.
A pirates life, a private life, spilling out on paper as the ship rocks back and forth. I carried the powder for the cannons as fast as I could. This bottle and cork protect my letter to you as our ship sinks slowly into the locker of Davey Jones.
©swk4411
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