Squandered Poem by William Benjamin Wolfe

In blind of night he wakes.
the ship has: not a rock,
nor has it a quake.

It drifts,
washing slow,
of doubtful ambitions

the sparks of cigarette
disturb the parish dark,
being confounded only;
else by light of moon.

ad hoc fumes
perish in absent light,
leaving virgin
sky untouched;
cloudless as it were

on the water
the waves semblant
are none other than
ripples of its existence;
but a mockery of
perseverance.