Sailing in a frail boat
across an otherwise empty sea in the emerald.
Tacking sideways endlessly, unable to stop or properly proceed,
pity crashing against rocks of resolve.
Eyeing for hope, seeing only more questions,
not discovering a thing.
Not capable of forgetting what should be forgotten,
while wind across your bow offers no respite; only torment.
Crosses you bear seem inevitable, inexorably yours;
weight undiminished in desolation or by distance.
No disguise found, not this time,
perpetually not escaping; still you seek redemption.
You flee on smooth but narrow paths
made by some tiny steamroller you operated so inexpertly.
Till now, on land, your navigation is subdued,
your skills annulled by uneventful sunrises, once glorious,
now anticlimactic sunsets.