The wind had died down.

The sailors stripped bare.

No mission, no drive, no salute.

The ocean’s vastness is too painful to conquer alone.

Anchor has dropped, has dragged, has pulled.

She’s afloat.

Nine of us left at sea.

Nothing to eat, nothing but me.

Salty tears is what I’m made of.

Never a father.

These waters are now drained.

Hollowed like the heart they once filled.

Dusted bottom.

Upon the shore, he waits once more.

© 2008 David Greg Harth

08.05.07.17:34:25@599NYC