The Storm : fourth draft

An orangey glow through closed pink lids,
Its warming fingers melt my core.
The temperate winds serenade my ears
As delicate wavelets sway the ship.

But Shadows veil the crimson hues
To pale yellow, then dark grey;
The cool wafts, now slicing gusts
That tear the muscles from my bone.

My hairs arise, but I cannot.
Wet timber’s groaning under foot;
I take one step, but fall to my knees,
My land-legs useless on angry seas.

Silver droplets multiply
Weaving icy whitened sheets;
They circumvent the sails’ tautness
Soaking their threads in salty brine.

Masts shriek in straining outbursts
And swirling gales torture ears.
The sky contracts: a Golden Flash--
And exhales sheer cacophony.

Sparks, bits, and wires fly
While torrents hasten forth to feast;
My face consumed by ceaseless water
While gasping lungs contest the surge

The world is gurgling blueness—
I cannot see…
Nor feel…
Nor think.

The cerulean depths are all that remain,
Their small undulations, my last refrain--
While piercing beams of golden light,
Transcend the deep to life above.