Can a grip Truly slip Free, from the sand More bottomless Than the sea? I hold down cradles, more dear Than up my sails. She was the terror upon the wind, I write to the journey of endless breaths. She wields the storm, My tempest, Her eyes, held in the clouds, Her face, kept behind To the sun that will not show, Will not grow in warmth. I stand here, Departed from land. Frozen on the quaking boards, Of my deck. The lonely call Of gull from what island Means to pull, Cannot be more alone that to where I have glided. I am here, With anchor slowing my pace, For I cannot walk upon these waves. Her tears have made the ocean, My neglect, the storm. I wither to send remnants of petals Up towards Heaven. Her breath, The word, My death, The sword.