Journal Forty-Six Men Vying

It's a new day! A new month! But I haven't gone to bed yet. I wrote most of tonight and I wanted to share what I wrote. This is mostly directed at Abbi (again), but this time it doesn't take place in her creepy house. We talked about Libertalia and Madagascar today (whoops, yesterday), so I felt it warranted another Emmi and Webster entry. It's like a nice little cosmic reward for the writing weirdness I felt the other day (like I could do nothing right). Anyway, here.

Southeasterly Kismet

We've come to find utopia in some ruins
in a fire pit
long since smoldering on the beach at Libertalia.
Here were pirates
living out our dream, hundreds of years ago,
before it was our dream.
If we could dig deep enough, we'd find their store
and we'd use it
to prop up our feet as we trade stories around the fire.
We've gathered
wood and oil and we've relit the old flame under the moon.
In the trees,
deeper and deeper than I've yet been, there are eyes
floating disembodied.
I say, "St. Elmo's fire, you reckon?" and you don't
say anything
because I think you've already been in those trees
and you've found
no will-o'-the-wisp, only monsters and nightmares
and lightning birds
molting the feathers of a midnight thunderstorm.
I wake up tomorrow
and you're already gone with the weapons
and the book
and the map we drew so long ago when Libertalia
was just a dream.
There's a poem tied to a stick in the sand, all the world
for a verse
to lead me safely to you, to the center of some mystery
with cyclone wings.