That Sinking Feeling

A lack of a sense
of direction?
No compass
or bearing
for course correction?
Make a decision
on your own,
not laying blame
to the owners of bones thrown,
or subject,
or the object,
of someone's poor derision,
on a ship of fools
with borrowed tools,
to repair
planks worn and holed,
from emboldened
stories embellished,
night time tales told
Swabbing,
scrubbing decks,
of ancient wrecks
Barely held together,
tethers worn,
strips of leather torn
to cram
in a tight jam,
gaps that spill
salt waters that sting
as they spill,
into bilges filled
to the limit
with suggestions
fortified with wine
way beyond
the plimsoll line