Unsung

Pieces of Eight,
Barrels of Hate,
and a windward ship called only "Zephyr"

one hundred men dead,
or wounded in bed,
and a bow that is broken and tethered

the Zephyr sails on toward the rising dawn,
and her galley is full of all worthless

each of them hung, and no song left unsung, when the sunset has finally come

but one stands alone, within his own bones, and wearied from searching for more

the everlong winter, of begging for dinner, has landed but never on shore

the sails they snap and the lines will crack as every hand turns now against him but he will not break and tho he will quake within the walls of his prison,

the afterimage burns, of the One whom he spurned, ripping through heart and through spirit

piercing he cries, and reviling dies, he sinks to the depths below

and from this sad scene, comes the spectre unseen, and carries away bones and soul

to Hades and Hell, beyond this life's veil, a binding is what he will know

for every one moment, and every lost lament, he'll break out in sores and blisters

from now till no more, the game has no score, and he has no brothers or sisters

it's time for the end, time's purse o'erspent, and sing does the Zephyr;

no more