Marooned

On a wind's whim we take a starboard tack, we're a drifer mostly. On board, a mindless captain, parched from the sun and a salty diet of fish. Beneath the decks, a lone prisoner, camouflaged within the steel bars of his jungle.

One thing is sure aboard this ship, the prisoner yearns to feel the warmth of the sun on his pale skin. To grab the wheel and steer the wandering vessel on a course anew. It eats at him everyday, like the barnacles covering the bow.

For this is a ship of fools, a witless slave of virtue, a witless slave to the vessel. Captain and prisoner alike. They are one and the same. The sails work, but they have no rope to harness their power. The rudder flaps in the current like a child sitting on the edge of a pool, splashing his feet in the water. The wheel responds like a disillusioned hamster, not knowing which way to run his own wheel.

Why does the captain waste his time on fishing all day when he could be sailing the seas for new land, land of plenties, land of beauties. Why doesn't the prisoner escape. To swim is to be free. This boat has all the makings of a story-telling-ship, yet it cruises through laziness like a sloth.

A drifter we have been, a drifter we shall be. Where are those trade-winds. Where is the sun to guide me to terra firma.

What am I? Who am I!