Scrape Bottom, Merchant of the Deep.

The ocean whipping razors against the bow
as the storm begins, tearing free
the figurehead
of someone he can't recall.
A nothing of a boat.
Sea foam hard upon the deck.
The squeal of salt in his ear,
trampling the urge to remember.

Sails knotting against the mast.
The scream of monster deep,
calling wild the great abyss.

The clawing black depth of oblivion,
and the hymn she sings
from long ago
before man tried her waters.

A nocturnal song mocking despair.
Sudden, the winds whip away the need to be.
A hundred force gale in the mouth, shuttering
the teeth and battering the skin like needles of glass.

He holds firm to the lashing,
grabs at the storm winds with his free hand
in a gesture profane.
Tentacles slap the decking.
A fearful song of hearts alive
and creatures diving
as a lone harp sings his final song from beyond.

White pecked waters, death black below,
surging from the mouth of forgotten
twain. Hold firm! The shout is all but drowned
in the churning rape of ocean salt beating at his ears.
No scream can conduct under such gravity.
And the bottom is lost as he
falls into the deep blue which rests like a sleeping maiden
under the black.

He stares at the ocean surface, neither up nor down.
His legs above him somehow.
The wet pulls into his lungs.
Panic.
Flames in his chest. He gasps the air that isn't there.
All alone. Not even the creature remains.
And then the emptiness begins
like a love long lost and returning
for the finale.

Scrape bottom,
O' bravery in jest!
Rest not even where the soul cannot depart.
Rest well in the darkness
where the end has no name
and the spirit was but a buttery thing,
melting below the waves.