The Island of the Dead
I sail to see the island of the dead.
A stillness emanates from it across
Its mist of waves. This quietude is spread
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Through haar. True blankness made of calm and loss
Presents itself against the eyelid, calm
From them; no, not from me. A moveless hush
Is what I turn towards. No nail-spiked palm
Awaits me there. A vacuum of plush
Surrender even Stoics could not dream
Of is the weather forecast as the shore
Pulls ships like mine. There looms an almost gleam
But more like darkness. It says, “Never more.”
..The dead wait there and then again they do
….Not answer, stiff Titanic’s shipwrecked crew.
~ Phillip Whidden