The lights from port are drowning out
My view of the roiling sea,
They shimmer and twinkle
So beautifully -
But I know I do not belong.
I watch the ships sometimes,
Far out, ploughing an ocean furrow,
And I wonder if my true place,
Is as the figurehead upon the prow.
My hair hangs in tendrils
Around my spectral face,
Like strands of kelp, washed up
On a cold, forsaken beach.
I sit on my legs until they are numb
And envision how it might be,
To have a streamlined tail again,
Instead of these aching feet.
So I will wait landlocked, alone,
Restlessly gazing out to sea,
While the depths continue
To call me home.