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