lost steering this strange vessel, 

behind the helm, we wrestle.

sheets as sails, a wind prevails,

no map or other details.

 

none of us chose to embark,

or trace meandering arc,

across a turbulent sea.

we have no choice but to be.

 

imagined destinations,

we lend our inspirations,

more credence than a compass,

captains conceited, pompous.

 

casting our names on thin lines,

held fast by earthly designs,

ink anchors and paper cuts,

no room for ifs, ands, or buts.

 

the moment we lay in cribs,

restless ebbing licks our ribs,

soon to return to the void,

everything we know: destroyed.

 

the wisdom of sand castles,

or being without hassles, 

is to know your work is dead,

and thus the ego is shed.