Arnav Walvekar
The sea raiders with spoils aboard,
Set sail as conquerors–uncrowned;
Decks stuffed with men and plundered hoard,
In search of loot and gold unbound.
Every deck clear and mast upright;
Hopes drenched in rum and sea alike;
The boards reeked of their illusive might,
Savages planned an austere strike.
The vessel waded through thick mist,
As morbid gloom befell the ship;
The phalanx of ingrates did twist,
As the sailor lord cracked his whip.
Drawn to the stanchions by the askew ocean,
Mauled by the carnage of the feisty winds;
Corpse-like silhouettes with felled emotion,
Smiting lords pulled the rusty, dreary strings.
Unruly chants then filled the air–stenchful;
A seaman’s pride is a matter of craze,
Unrivalled yet, they drifted forth wilful;
The shroud of mist kept the sinners agaze.
Sights then extended to a macabre glance–
Sea bereft of life, tempest incoming;
Half the sinful beasts already in a trance,
The gluttons writhed in horror–shivering.
Whirling winds ventured across the trying sea,
Predicament unprecedented thus;
All structure abrogate, ideal only to flee–
Off board went few; ship dwindled by the fuss.
An evil omen in the guise of storm,
Washed across the ship, entire crew and deck;
The wood was now afloat, sans sail, sans form,
Among reckless shouts, in a mammoth wreck.
Thrust out with disgrace, and no gold in sight;
Replete with water, but none so to taste;
Imbued with anguish, and clear their respite,
They screamed out for help in desperate haste.
Abandoned and lost in the chronic sea,
The ocean known once, yet uncharted now;
The folk were restrained–yet now almost free,
Ready to give in, take a final vow.
Frozen sinews gnawed–persistent,
Obdurate shapes now resentful;
The end loomed nigh and imminent,
At sunken pieces hands did pull.
A civil ship treaded past–unflinching;
The chthonic monster of the vast expanse,
Awaited the succumbent–now trembling;
Not a soul to cast a merciful glance.
Dreaded skirmishes over pennies and bate,
Impertinent this day, versus the sea;
What hath thou in store, O’ disastrous fate?
Grief, obliteration for traitors of thee.
The vast facade of the niche–so demure,
An epithet fitting for sinister lives,
With seconds numbered and a single cure,
Drawn and cast were the butchers' hideous knives.
Daunting forms that vanquished the seas,
Lay buoyant in scarlet water;
Flesh bled dry under chilly breeze–
Uncouth figures lay in slaughter.