Strapped to the Mast

The others are hard at work, wax in their ears. Salt spray showers the deck as our beleaguered vessel plows through the storm, swells crashing over the bow. Someone has to watch for rocks, witness the crippling call of lust and rut. The pounding heart alone is going to rend the ropes that hold me fast and anchored to the mast that tips with the rolling tub that keeps us from drowning. I would jump into the freezing chop if I could, in this possessed state; worse I am than a dog paralyzed by the scent of heat, the genetic imperative to spill seed. Estrus. Fulfilling a dream. The promise of consummation, deliverance, annihilation. The wiring of the flesh is stronger than my will. Thank God for the ropes, the cords that bind, and for the desire that quickens the sleeping soul. Only there can I awaken from this repetitious slumber, this plodding of the walking dead.