Adrift
Lost at sea without a map
or compass to know North
The stars may seem to be our last
best hope to steer our course
Trusting somehow with a squint
that a pattern will coalesce
Some direction or trifling hint
of a deep, divine caress
But the constellation of our fate
lies in mankind’s own design
Method madness, loving hate
and not how skies align
Even castaway, adrift at sea
wrapped round a shattered mast
if this despair was meant to be
no matter how deep or vast
the ocean of our current tide
will surf up on the sand
having washed away our misspent pride
to convey the promised land