By dawn—or was it something else?—
The ocean slowed its fraying song.
The stars, like ancient silver shells,
Hung loosely as they passed along.
The cabin light, still golden-glow,
Flickered once, then bloomed anew.
The man inside was moving slow,
His breath a cloud, his thoughts a few.
His arms now slack, the wheel unmanned,
The motor hushed to gentle hum.
The sea had let him understand
What he had fought, what he’d become.
No lighthouse called. No voice was near.
The radio was just a shell.
But oddly, nothing screamed of fear—
More like the end of some old spell.
He reached below and drew a coat,
Pulled close a flask, untouched and still.
Then lay across the bench and boat,
Not dead—just empty of the will.
The rain still tapped, but now it sang.
The thunder whispered in retreat.
The final waves against him rang
Like lullabies with no repeat.
A single crow upon the mast—
Had it been there? None could say.
But something watched the moment pass
As dream and salt took thought away.
He closed his eyes. His chest rose slow.
His hands, unclenched, forgot the war.
And in that yellow cabin glow,
He finally slept… wanting no more.
No rescue came, nor would they find
A tale more vast than what he bore.
One man alone, with fate entwined,
At sea, became the storm’s folklore.
Epilogue (Unspoken)
He never left the boat behind,
Nor the storm that bore his name—
But somewhere still in roaring wind,
His silhouette still remains.