The Morrow

Ten thousand destinations  and a hundred seas to sail,  but every seaman’s story  is a cautionary tale,  so keep an eye on the horizon,  a hand upon the rail,  and pray the stars will  guide us till the morrow.  Ten thousand destinations -  so far we've called at three,  and the standing order is  triangulate repeatedly,  but a port is still a port,  and between their swirls a sea,  so I pray the night will  finally find the morrow.  Ten thousand destinations,  a hundred thousand storms,  then a day or two bad weather  while the wind and waves reform  before they rush from every angle  in an angry, howling, swarm,  through which I pray and pray to  somehow see the morrow.  Ten thousand destinations,  though some say even more,  but I've seen enough to verify  the ancient seaman’s lore:  The sun may rise and set  for those that stay upon the shore,  but at sea it is the prayers  that bring the morrow.

Sage

Let this be dementia.  Let it be thin blood ribboning  through frail and outworn veins.  Let it be imbalance, an  overflow set seeping through  life's lusterless remains,  where the drag of age outweighs the days  and loss undoes the gains.  Or let it be madness.  Have it marked and measured,  mathematized, and meticulously gauged,  for memory's maze cannot  assuage the rigorous regret  that sets the final stage,  and leaves us with a shawl, a sham,  and the long awaited wisdom of old age.