April 5th, Ghostships Drift Through the Mind

On the 5th,
the myth of the ghostships returns
adrift,
unhurried,
moving with the slow authority
of things that have forgotten
what it means to have a destination.

They glide across the inner horizon,
full of voids and echoes
from the beginnings of time,
carrying the dust of ancient breaths,
the sighs of vanished sailors,
the leftover murmurs of worlds
that never learned to stay.

No god,
no god,
no god
only the long, hollow hum
of existence remembering itself
through wood, salt, and shadow.

These ships do not haunt.
They observe.
They pass by like old teachers
who know better than to interrupt
the foolishness of the living.

Their sails are torn metaphors,
their hulls carved with questions
that no longer require answers.
They drift because drifting
is the only honest movement
left to them.

And as they cross the day,
April 5th tilts slightly,
as if the world itself
is listening to their silence.

The air thickens with memory
not personal memory,
but the memory of matter,
the memory of oceans
that once believed in purpose,
the memory of time
before time had a name.

And in that vast, echoing quiet,
we feel something loosen:
a knot,
a fear,
a certainty we never needed.

The ghostships continue,
unbothered,
unblessed,
unclaimed
and their passing leaves us
strangely lighter,
as if the void they carry
has made room
for something else to breathe.