A broken compass

A pirate alone in the sweltering sun on an island, a pirate isolated in his politics of fear, a pirate laden with gold and silver helplessly with it, one more disheveled than ever pirate.

One sober pirate with thousands of empty bottles at his feet, a soul of the sea coming ashore, a thief turned hero, a murderer merciless praying to God.

A Marine throwing away his badges, a hero lost into his mental war, a good citizen fallen into a swamp of evil beasts, master turned slave.

A sinking ship before sailing, a skull flag underneath a garish sun, an infernal plot approaching to the coast, a mob of animals chasing each other, sodomizing, abusing, getting drunk.

A broken compass at the bottom of the ocean, unknown a skeleton on the shore of the beach, dyed red sand, sharp stones by the dawn.

From executioner to captive from porting the hood to fall into a bottomless dungeon.

A lonely pirate hanged in the Execution Dock on the Thames and although many others are also hanged he seams to be alone, motionless than the others, dirty clothes washed in blood, rats at the foot of the wood pole that holds him, as people are looking.

Who’s the bastard in front?

A cold breeze passes accompanied by a smooth drizzle, salty breeze fully loaded of death, and wants to tell who was this stigmatized character that took the furious sea as his king, a boat set on fire as home and no one as his family.

Multiple times maimed, tattooed infinitely, sun and salt labeled, immune to hunger and addicted to alcohol, a face very tired, saltpeter, and scars.

 

A lonely pirate hanged rises  among many others into a forest of fright.

A pirate.