There lay a story of a lonely sailor

Taming the tumultuos sea

Taming the vivid monstrosity;

Nay a feat for any but he (outlandish it may seem).

A story follows him

Written in the foam of the waves,

Telling of a young boy

Whom grotesquely dies every day.

Not the gallows nor a plague

Awaited his weary soul.

Instead he died in his dreams, such a perpetual nightmare,

Unsure of where it borne,

Oh what a terrible ire to see.

This young boy fled for his life 

In the day which always succumbed to the dreaded night,

He ran to the end, ran as if the wind itself raced he, and over again

He jumped into his labrynthian head,

Playing mechanic to his own turmoil,

Such perpetual dread.

Should you meet him

Ask him his story;

Question him thusly

To reveal the adventures he claims lore.

Oh but the things he could speak

Should you chance meet him at his peak.

He proclaims a desert of a thousand suns,

And yet here drowns in a sea of limitless leagues.

He fights gallantly in the night,

Struggling to stay alive between the crest of the Sun and the fall of the stars,

(Aye the stars he peers at, 

And the same stars he fears at,

Sailing silently this wayward son).

Though not ask him where he runs

For weary he will grow and then gone,

A raven in the night, he takes flight,

Swiftly averting his eyes once more,

As many times before and forever more,

Fighting the current back to the sea, 

This lonely sailor, forever this ghastly shadow follows he.