Shores of meaning

Exclamation daggers and question mark hooks 
hang close to the jugular and the sweat drop
commas won't work. The prayers of kneeling 
semi-colons have no relevance. The bullet holes
of full stops seem final. Underline this, O sailor
gliding on the deep still waters of a blank page.
I row with my pen streaking an inkling in its wake
hoping the reader to follow the writing on the water. 
That ever shifting ripple with its multiple centers
brews a storm which is confused and confusing. 
It threatens the house of alphabet built till then. 
The vigil of the English teacher does not help
who in a thousand years has not swerved from her 
steady job of navigating me through the mermaid filled
seas to the shores of clear meaning and to a morning
whose language is perfect with the piercing 
birdsong tattooing the thought for the day.