Precipice on the Coast

What the future brings is like water on a shore
Bringing a single sailor, alive among the dead,
Or a ship paying gold for a future unsold.

What the present holds presents a choice -
to do, to not do, to neither do, nor not do
or to do all one can, despite what one cannot.

At that precipice on the shore, between
A past of choices, frothing with tidal fortunes
And the future depths of the horizon

Another choice will propel us forward,
Another choice will keep us back.
Or no choice will be made by us;
Or we are thrown headfirst, seaward.

To those brave enough to make that choice,
With the wisdom that bravery brings death
We are awaited by sell swords on wild seas.

To those, who take that first step forward,
With a bold smile and a fearful heart
Unsure of when death will smile back.

To those, who claim the seas for themselves,
For their suffering is their own, and their craft
Is between them and their god:

As long as we set sail with pain and suffering
What can hurt us, but bad weather and ignorance

Who to blame but ourselves, and our weakness.
What can kill us, but what kills all?

What future to seize, but a bloody victory
What wisdom to seek, but self-significance
What left to spill, but our own blood.

What stupidity, but leaving a warm fire
What greatness, but empty seas
What left to offer, but nothing.

What victory, but pain and suffering
What glory, but cruelty everywhere.

What riches, but of what to offer forever
What wisdom, except that to teach the young
What dreams, but waking nightmares.

What joy, but a small fire.
Where to return to, but home.

What tales to tell when old and warm
But for dreams that were once bright
Bled for, bargained in tears and screams,
When darkness was worse than death.

What journey is worth a home
With a small hearth, a small bed
When choice takes us forward?
What could be greater than greatness
And farthest from before?

What better glory, than triumph?
What better triumph, than legend?

What better wisdom, than the folly
of a drop that survives the ocean.

No seaward glory is worth its salt,
Unless true tales can speak their pride
Around warm fires and round tables -
With pain and suffering left behind
In ignored stories, and memories of pride.