Oar

Across a hot and lifeless sea

the Ship continues his journey

but the wind that drew his sails is gone

and so I sit down under the decks

and I grab the heavy wooden oars.

 

Muscles strain and pop

my hands fill with blisters and splinters

and sweat beads my forehead,

coats my face and back

as I pull the oars back to my chest

time and again.

 

When there is no Anchor,

a dead Sail, and no active need of a Rudder

you just have to row.