This poem describes a painting of a sailboat and delves deeper into reality or illusion, whichever way you might want to look at.
Periwinkle brushed away the horizon from skies and oceans;
People wouldn’t be same.
Jonquil kissed Ecru with passion as the final sun bathed them in righteous flames
Without passing judgment.
Tenebrous cloaks billowed as it outlined the sail beneath which it hid;
The refuge the weak need to seek is.
The wind would, after all, direct the journey as the currents took the keel;
Because the powerful decided or despite.
Alarm bells gonged in protest;
Winds could not be painted but its effects could brew a tempest.
Sailors hauled the broken shrouds;
Clouds distempered the darkening sky as their spirits began to douse.
The boat, over and again, leaped;
The captain whispered his last prayers and took the crew in a final embrace
But like Hope, it couldn’t be too loud;
Is it in my capacity to alter course or is it all a charade until the final round?