The Mariner’s Labyrinth
A mariner wandered where the waves comply
With whispered winds that sang of long-lost shores,
His ship a phantom where the tempest roars.
The brine had claimed his crew, their voices drowned,
Yet he, by fate’s cruel jest, remained unbound,
Adrift upon a raft of splintered pine,
A plaything for the Neptune’s dark design.
Ten thousand stars, like tears of gods, did weep
As shadows wove their shroud of endless deep,
Till dawn, in pity, spilled its amber hue
On jade-green waves that birthed a vision true:
An isle arose, where coral cliffs did gleam,
And palms, like sentinels, stood tall in steam.
There, at the heart, a garden’s gate unsealed—
A labyrinth of blooms none had revealed.
“What sorcery,” he gasped, salt-lungs aflame,
“Doth carve this Eden from the ocean’s frame?”
Through arches draped in jasmine’s milky veil,
He stumbled, footfalls soft on petaled trail,
Where roses blushed as if with stolen breath,
And lilies bowed to secrets worse than death.
The air, thick-sweet with nectar’s false reprieve,
Promised what mortal souls dare not believe.
A voice, like wind through silvered willow leaves,
Bade him to follow where the garden weaves
Its spell: “O weary son of Neptune’s spite,
Why cling to memory’s anchor in this night?
Cast off the chains of years that weigh thy breast,
And let my blossoms grant thee endless rest.”
There stood a maiden—pale as seafoam’s crest,
Her eyes twin pools where drowned men’s hopes were dressed.
“What phantom art thou,” quoth the ravaged soul,
“That walks these paths where no damned ship may toll?”
She smiled, a crescent moon in dusk’s embrace:
“I am the keeper of this timeless place,
Where tides of sorrow break against the shore
Of Lethe’s spring, which heals what men abhor.
Drink, sailor, drink—and watch thy pain take wing,
For here, all burdens lose their mortal sting.”
He knelt beside the fountain’s murmuring flow,
Where liquid sapphire danced with undertow,
Yet paused—for in the waters, shadows played
Of faces loved, of debts still left unpaid.
“What devil’s bargain dost thou offer here?
To drown my past in lies, my conscience clear?”
Her laughter rippled through the hyacinth:
“Nay, ’tis not sin, but mercy’s truest myth.”
Three days he wandered ’neath the garden’s dome,
Each petal’s scent a dagger to his home,
Each fruit he tasted—honeyed, yet austere—
Dissolved one thread of all he once held dear.
The maiden’s song, a lullaby of mist,
Erased the child’s name from his clenched fist,
The wife’s last kiss, the friend who shared his youth—
All stolen by the garden’s cannèd truth.
“Stay,” pleaded she, when seventh evening fell,
“What waits beyond these walls but ocean’s hell?
Here, thou art king of dreams that never fade,
No storm to rend, no salt to make thee blade.”
He turned, a tempest in his weathered face:
“Better the truth that time cannot erase
Than live as ghost in gilded, scentèd chains—
Lead me beyond these false, eternal plains!”
Through thornèd maze they battled, step by step,
Where peacock flowers wept with venom kept,
Till dawn’s first light revealed the gate’s cruel jest—
A cliff above the sea’s eternal unrest.
“Choose,” spoke the maiden, now a wraith in gray,
“The waves’ embrace or garden’s sweet decay.”
He gazed upon the waters, vast and free,
Then back to blooms that smelled of memory.
“I’ll bear my scars like stars,” he vowed, and leapt,
But ocean’s maw in mockery accept
Not flesh, nor bone—for as he sought the foam,
His form dissolved like ash, denied a home.
The garden sighed, and closed its jadeèd door,
While far above, the gulls still cried “No more.”
Thus ends the tale they whisper ’neath their breath:
The sailor who chose life, yet won but death.
Now linger, reader, on this bitter truth—
Illusion’s bloom oft masquerades as youth.
What prison sweet we build to shun the storm,
And in forgetting, lose what makes us warm.
Let not the siren song of painless nights
Outshine the dawn that comes with earned delights.
For better far the tempest’s honest roar
Than gardens where the soul is evermore.
