I write a manifest, a boatswain's list,
a log of all the promises I've made
to no one but myself. I raise a fist
defiantly to life. But I'm afraid
of weighing anchor, getting underway,
of challenging Posiedon under sail
of running with a squall at break of day
while praying that the rudder doesn't fail.
Yet, I will use the navigator's art
to plot a course through islands of despair,
and I will trust the compass of my heart
to choose a heading caution wouldn't dare.
The promise of a voyage yet to be
will tug the weary sailor out to sea.
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