Corsairs by Justin Ballard

This is what happens,
when “something”
is better
than nothing
at all.
The quiet desperation
of memories of things
that never happened,
cities never built,
worlds never explored,
watching the sands from the hourglass fall.
Weaving through time,
extrapolated metaphysical context.
To secede from the constraints
of the constant, of physics.

To exist between existences
and observe from a distance
all possibilities made manifest.
A ship sailed by eighty proof
and manned by the will of dead men
and myth.
To stare into space,
not the figure of speech,
but the spaces in between the face,
the face that haunts dreams
and holds traces of a taste.
Music for all the wrong moods
and dances that don’t
fit the cadence of the tune;
naive, uninformed and presumed
dead and dressed
in doom
and made of the same stuff
as dead stars.
Keys sung to emptiness felt,
an emptiness both
and romanticized.
Strings that freed
and bound.
Winds that wound
and soared their way
around hearts
willfully drowned.
Feathers carried letters
infinitely better left unread.
Time a riptide that
pulled at
the rudder.
Guided past constellations
that looked
like reflections too familiar for comfort.
Weaving through time,
its fabric.
Embedding into it.
Evading it.