Finite Sailing

Shark fins part the dark waters we swim. Circling
the shadows lumber larger beneath white waves. Gathering
gaping maws reek of rancid meat,
rotting between rows of teeth.

This shifting square of ocean air will mark our graves.
Our boat floats above a beautiful emerald reef.
In this game there are no saves to roll master chief.

They bash our boat with stupid primal charges no shore in sight or flares to light,
our barge bulges, tilts, dented,
no emergency rescue or harpoon.
Friends await afar to meet anon
but death comes soon
glee-faced and beady-eyed.
When the fight joins they'll chew us to bits;
our legacy in this sea will be two shark shits.

Thrown overboard by the latest lurch I search for the deck.
Knives shred my arm!
I feel stinging cooling bicep
[He paddles in bloodied water,
screaming while large bodies press against him from below.
Frenzied, they rend him thoughtless.
He's (jerked {underwater) tackled} -tangled in fishing lines.
A tacklebox knocks out dread.
Froth churns, turns red...]

Don't Leave Me

At the dispersal of a party, be it family gathering at holiday, friends for a drink, a dance club's closing, or any occasion there's a sensation of emptying in the revelers. Neural rows of connections between us snap off. Like series of usb ports unplugged.
It's hardwired in us to crave company, to love society. Some are satisfied with the gathering and look forward to the next. A remainder of the last party stays together to continue elsewhere. Singles split off to return to solitude. Some stay at the place of meeting to clean up or 'cause they live there. Maybe to linger and admire the setting. Some work to counter the flow of the mob, convince people to stay, and sometimes have charisma or new events enough to hold onto most of the crowd. On the greatest of scales: this last role in the party is fulfilled by politicians, bankers, and bureaucrats.
In the context of mingling, lawmakers are party-planners. Lawyers referees for our games. Cops and armies bouncers who decide who gets in without sneaking and who stays without wanting. Executors are hosts who won't give dinner to guests who repeatedly refuse to play. Then oppression is the neurosis of someone who fears the band he has assembled hates him and takes every measure to keep as many people as close as possible. Of course "The Man" in his manor is not inviting the rabble into his house but he's touching us through his currency, military, and infrastructure. He doesn't want to let go. The shame is these types seem to eventually become the depraved bully. The madman who hits a woman if she tries to run away and then will say how much he cares while stroking her face. Like that chick from the Stephen King movie who breaks a guy's legs...