What floats on the mind like a yacht on a sea?
This yacht is mine, my private sea.
You have your own, where ye be.
Even if a multitude, pressed, on every side;
It’s your own private yacht you ride.
Tell me friend, what fills your sails?
You quote me Freud with shallow draft
With tempus tossed, parental wrath!
That’s what blows you from here to there?
Shut your eyes and look around.
Sound your depths and you will see
There is no bottom to your sea.
There is no one there but you to blame.
You own, the glory and the shame.
Your choices made you who you are.
Tell me how to torture an enemy.
Your greatest fears you shared with me.
The measure you use, your measure is.
Losers may resort to blame
For an illusion of victory over those they defame
Not only to lose but to lose without shame
Listen to an accuser reveal his own measure
Listen while he bears his soul
with lists of his priorities and goals.
A faithful spouse is the last to know.
A thief jealously guards his property.
A cheater loses the ability to trust
Garbage in is garbage out.
Whatever floats your raft;
or floats your mighty craft.
© David E. Spry 12/27/05