The Human Barnacle

Thou cling’st, as barnacles to hulls abide,
Yet mak’st no voyage, nor chartest any tide.
My labor’d craft thou claim’st as thine own breath,
But parasite’s praise is a slower death.

Thy voice, an echo—hollow, late, and vain,
Turns pearls of thought to pebble, mud, and chain.
What thou call’st wit is but a stolen spark,
A thief of dawn who thrives in others’ dark.

Think’st thou thy host forever shall not see,
That weighty drag doth rot the gallant sea?
Behold—when barnacles grow thick and proud,
The ship cuts less, and founders in the shroud.

So shall thy glory, gilded, false, and thin,
Proclaim to all the emptiness within.
Yet know: no barnacle doth sail the wave,
It is the ship, not thou, the world shall save.