Swift is the river of my mind,
Bearing upon it a fleeting fleet of new ideas;
Blank vessels awaiting my details
Even as they carry me where they will,
For paper, thoughts have no rudder
And I haven’t the heart to fashion one.
To what end?
Lest the current be damned.
My vessel’s nature upon its means of travel
This means there can only be one end to our journey —
A sinking ship destined for the riverbed.
But oh, the colours upon it I shall paint before then.