| New Hampshire Writers |
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| ...Some One Touched by Billy |
As dusk settles into night the last remaining sliver, a streak of
redness on the horizons fading proof of a days source of warmth
completes it's retreat. White, bright lights appear across the ocean top
accompanied by starboard green and port red navigation lights of other
fishing vessels making ways on various courses. The miss givens of a calm
sea state lure false hopes of an easy excursion, a shorter trip
duration, an early return from sea.
Mindful, respectful and ever due diligent my task at hand, my
safety and that of others relying on mutual where with all and perseverance
a singular break down a catastrophic failure. A cold steel tomb sinks
swiftly into the black obis as a grave the ocean holds it's secrets
deep at the bottom absent of all light, a fluid hell of horror in silence
almost tranquil it's peace the bait, my resting place that of fate.
I live not in fear of a watering conclusion, balanced with respect,
fear and admiration the terrible plight of my occupation. A drug not
often kicked, a person not quite right, a special kind of some one
touched and filled with might. True be known in some sort of sick and
twisted way I get off on what I do...do you?
Often sadist my two feet on stable land, my life the rock I roll up
hill Sisyphus by nature the chore my love, the interment my sentencing, fishing my life.
redness on the horizons fading proof of a days source of warmth
completes it's retreat. White, bright lights appear across the ocean top
accompanied by starboard green and port red navigation lights of other
fishing vessels making ways on various courses. The miss givens of a calm
sea state lure false hopes of an easy excursion, a shorter trip
duration, an early return from sea.
Mindful, respectful and ever due diligent my task at hand, my
safety and that of others relying on mutual where with all and perseverance
a singular break down a catastrophic failure. A cold steel tomb sinks
swiftly into the black obis as a grave the ocean holds it's secrets
deep at the bottom absent of all light, a fluid hell of horror in silence
almost tranquil it's peace the bait, my resting place that of fate.
I live not in fear of a watering conclusion, balanced with respect,
fear and admiration the terrible plight of my occupation. A drug not
often kicked, a person not quite right, a special kind of some one
touched and filled with might. True be known in some sort of sick and
twisted way I get off on what I do...do you?
Often sadist my two feet on stable land, my life the rock I roll up
hill Sisyphus by nature the chore my love, the interment my sentencing, fishing my life.