In the Rigging

Some say there is a song

In the rigging
Others call it a wail
A screech.
 

I have heard little of the first
And too much of the latter.
 
The song entices me
Drawing me into
Its female breast
Of joy and comfort.
 
I fairly faint to think
I may either be driven
From its consolation.
 
But the wail
The screech
My friend
Is the very breath of hell
Raked across the rigging.
 
The wail
The screech
Will foul your soul
Deep into
The dark dregs of Abaddon.
 
It will fix your feet to the deck
Forbidding your race for life.
It will make you to forget
The face of your mother
The arms of your lover
The promises of your savior.
 

The wail
The screech
Is the most bitter of auditory bleeding.
 
It is a knife between the ribs
A noose tightening the neck.
 
I urge you
By the tears of the Almighty
To consign your soul
To the briny depths
Before the horrid yowl
Attain its crescendo
In hopes you not lose your soul
To the wind in the rigging.