So are the seas, bright even in this darkness,
Bright like eyes, who’ve not succumb to death,
With lights still inside, peering from the soul;
This is the ocean, and I linger by her, a ghost.
A mother, maybe, but I have no mother to speak,
I have no father, no sibling, no ancestor, just this,
She, the water, the lapping waves, and sometimes
The moon, but only when she is a thin horn, unblown.
Ships, gulls, whale moans, they are not here,
For this blue body is an empty body, a hollow shell,
That whistles with the wind, with no life in its cradle,
That a heart like mine could lie in, be unknown.
Shores are shining tonight, shores are silver slabbed,
Sands are slick and dappled by the large lunar hand,
All stretched by a sky, pale and clear and crystal,
Too much so, the air cutting and bitter as arctic cold.
These words are meaningless to what I behold,
Have no purpose, the scene I bathe in, washes,
The written passages never reach, merely brush
This sea at darkness, barely alive, compared to.
