Far
and lost in between, aimlessly a flotilla somewhere in the middle of the ocean,
stained in time and torn by season, how yonder that breaks its heart to see
itself slowly at ruin. What makes of it but a thing made of man that which can
never be known of nay purpose but what it serves best. Lonesome as it meddles
with waves, wishful when it shall be taken back from where it was born. What
makes of it?! What more can it give!?? Merely a thing to sail around above
waters a specter of life underneath it grows.
No comments:
Post a Comment