He'd rather be in a rocking ship than in a world that he can't have.
He'd rather be at the top of a mast where the clouds grow grey, black and fast.
He'd rather be in the hold of a schooner that rocks on waves ten and twelve feet high.
He'd even rather be below in lonely quarters, where captain's dreams live and die.
He'd rather be in a faraway port where no one knew his name.
Or in a peddlers market where everyone looked the same.
Instead he stands in the widow's walk where he can see the waves for miles.
Instead he dreams in a locked away attic, far from exotic foreign isles.
This was home, he convinced himself, in this house of wishful dreams.
At least a specter here, he says, he can long for love and things.
He shares the day at a long arms reach from what he wants the most.
But at night a tear falls, along with stars, and he wishes he weren't a ghost.