I breathe in sync’ with movement of her form
Eyes fixed for slightest deviation shown
When praying for a billowed sail as norm
Yet sheets don’t catch the wind as she lies prone
One wonders of such thoughts within one’s mind
Confronted and becalmed when end games nigh
Shouldst free the mooring cables used to bind
Or “hold on fast, to all that’s dear” be cry
If casting off, releases to her fate
Betwixt the ebb and flow of breaking heart
Wouldst then her anchor drop at Heaven’s gate
As I bereft set sail without a chart
Will sextant point the way o’er stormy seas
Or North winds blow, negating all my pleas