S.O.S

 Authors write books like a marooned soul living on parched deserted island. 
They scrawl their words down, stuffing them in bottles to hurdle into the tides of time. 
They wish there was civilization and company to rescue from shallow conversation,
From the scorching heat of the trepid and the vain who fade colors to bleak hues of white. 
Authors write books and cast them out in wonder if the words will ever reach another,
Will they find this lost mind. Will they be rescued themselves. Will the ideology or ruminations, the labor and the aspiration chart a course to truth? 
Authors can see the people speed by on their apathetic jetboats, careening through life surfing on self absorption. 
I'm just an author shipwrecked in my thoughts, daydreaming on cobbled raft of unsaid things.