Going West

I’ll hop a train, wind slowly to the coast,
and while we ride along at least allow
myself to mock the hell in which we boast:
let me conjure in mind the spectral bow
of that old whaling ship, all set to plow
the waves in vengeance on the ancient void
itself, instead laid waste, her captain now
a cipher in a tale.  If, overjoyed
at having made it to the end, annoyed
perhaps by idiot tourists on the way,
I find some absolution and avoid
the fate that hurtles toward me every day,
may I be made another cipher’s kind
upon a stretch of shore as we unwind.

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