Withdrawn again into his words,
His empty casket carved with tales:
“The Legend of His Years at Sea”;
“The Mystery of His Broken Heart”.
The Golden Fleece he washed and shrank.
His deities were less than frank.
He knows there’s nowhere left to run,
Yet still his need to flee this place.
“An island paradise”, they said.
To him it stinks of rich men’s debts,
And saps like him who pick the tab,
Or pass it on to orphaned kids.
So off his little stylus runs.
In fourteen lines: a fake escape.