Pieces: Fall Where They May

In it to win it.
As if there is such a thing.
There will be no winning,

but I if I can finish this...

the turn of a month,
your anchors are lifted
and you are set adrift.
A captain of my own ship
at times blissful.
I have no crew.
No one to celebrate in victory,
or to commiserate with in defeat.

Though distance is a miscreant,
stealing weight from bodies in hot summer suns;
no difference.
If I were home.

If I were home.

Life spent getting out and
away from it,
no creation
a semblance of one
with a crew
or without one.
I didn't deserve one,
not being willing to learn.

It is worse than the doldrums.
And surely I have killed the albatross
which hangs over my soul
like a Yakuza tattoo.

Maybe there are pieces left,
but worn,
devoid of color
now without recognition.
Too often I listen to the wrong noise and
look for the meaningless.

I am my doom