I am, myself, an ocean.
My skin the thing on which I float,
The boat I have to travel in.
The winds are strong, and threatening
To pull me in, my little boat
Is leaking, creaking, not too long
Before I join the others
In the depths so far below.
I see their faces still, the wrecks.
The beck of land called them to death
For land is harsh, and sharp, and land
Does not provide for things you keep
Within your oceans, vast, and deep.
For I had kept a multitude
Of dreams and hopes, I wept for them
When land required they walked on legs,
And breathe with lungs they did not have.
They beckon me with marble eyes,
Towards the skies and shores of land,
But I know I can only live
Inside the ocean that I am.
But in this ocean there are things-
Dull, singing things like funeral bells,
Old memories, regrets, mistakes,
Whose weight is all too much to bear
For all the statues buried there.
They show the world, I have their eyes,
The sun may rise but it is dull,
Not singing, silenced by the sea
That ebbs and flows so steady in me.
The sun may rise but I am cold,
My boat already leaks, and mould
Has grown within this boat so long
I've already scraped and cut the skin
And let the murky water in -
And I would like to drown.