Anchors Aweigh Poem by Mark Heathcote

Like a huge python, winding round and round
We see Orion's Belt and other such-
systems whirring above us—off the ground,
and though there's light pollution, we're in touch
not with who created the universe
so much as our, own place and importance.
We are all now totally, self-immerse
our self-image, status takes precedence.

The divine no longer makes any sense.
The lights of heaven are simply oil-lamps
Two gases they say are the architects
Hydrogen and helium amps-
alternating—we owe our existence;
but gears are in movement at all times.
Things-happen good - evil - nonexistence:
they all bite, but only one true-love guide's;

Our captain, He hauls an unseen capstan,
and it isn't us or a skulking-snake
what fuels our soul, isn't an atom
-or-lone-dust particle star-like opaque
that delivers us lost seafarer's home.
It isn't some northern star guide's our way
hissing on the wind the flotsam and foam
That finally calls shouts anchors aweigh