Shackled to a floe, floating on the broadside of a ship,
hands become a skullcap, clenching my hair till tears fell.
With cannon balls slaughtering the sea around me,
drowning me in a mockery of my own fear.
Isolated by speech, left with meaning less words.
I see my paragon, the one I wish to become; to only have a miscarry.
A swine traveling, just that I am, passing milestones,
found that I swaggered in a circle, still in the same old town.
