I am the soulless voyager
cut loose from the dock
in a rudderless craft

Kicked this way and that
by angry winds that greet
all flat surfaces, and --
having met a surface --
pushes it away with maximum effort

Where will my ghost ship take to land?

After all,
every voyage must end -- 
be it purposeless or purposeful

A craft can only circle 
(having been caught in the currents)
for so long before it's whipped
off into sand or rock or 
some unlikely port

That's the great mystery,
the mystery by which life
is made worthy of living
 
one never knows whether 
one will be tossed to a port or a rocky shoal,
a shoal whose rocks will rip open the ship,
like a deer dressed by a poor hunter,
being torn at jagged angles
so as to be unworthy
to be called a ship or boat or even 
"thing that floats,"
becoming a rusty structure,
resting at an odd angle
near the shore

but maybe this ghost ship 
will be tossed roughly against 
the rubber bumpers of a dock,
coming to rest 
such that what remains
can be offloaded