a mutiny never begins with a number
it begins with a spark, a darkness in the light
a belief that they are better
when order is key.
a mutiny bodes ill for the powers that be
a captain's blade running crimson in the oil-lamp light;
able bodies wasted for naught but a poor man's dream.
the conditions were clear; fight or be fought, and the captain does not lose.
in a game of die, a pair is a clear winner;
so with the darkened skies came the lighting of the fires
and the harking of the crows.
the leering of the loyal betrayed the grimness of the deck
and those considered friends were parted by the waves
weighed down with the folly of their decisions and stamped by the captain
left in the arms of the Locker;
when the horizon began to crack, and the gulls touched down to awake them
the last man standing stood before the wheel
a touch of dawn in their eyes;
aye, their story was not over.
it was just beginning.