Davy Jones

The captain's cry was betrayed by the storm, diluted by the rain and stolen on the thracian winds. It was the seas final mutiny. The crew had ceased their scurry, the captain, stern and controlled made no reprimand, the lightning cracked open the sky with a slow and unatural calm And somehow, there was the stillness of morning, in the wildest of nights. The captain had tasted death before, once more and for the last time it fused with the heat of rum and the captians cold heart was made warm. The cannons belonged to davy Jones now, soon too his ship and the souls that clung to it's sails. His daughter stared to the horizon with a disturbing complacency, we shouldn't have made him walk papa, she whispered through the rain. The captain grasped his prize, the necklace that belonged to his lover, the lover that belonged to oldest friend. He knelt to his daughter, smiling he turned, casting the ruby and gold thread to the sea. Im sorry davy, he whispered to the rain. And the storm ceased as though it never wrapped it's fingers around the sea, and a new sensation of dissapointment met the captain on the bow. He needed not another sunrise, He needed a place where he could close his eyes.