April Poem-A-Day 13: Queequeg ages

Queequeg ages,
his harpoon bent
his eyes poor
his arm weak.

Something fatal,
something mocking
calls from the deep sea,
searching for his life.

We corrode with him,
dwindling down days
without requite,
alone in our gloaming.

Yet Queequeg lives:
augment to myth,
strong in memory,
touched by love.

© 2009, php