It called to her and echoed a thousand times within her head. Like billowing sheets for sails, And an oak living room table for the hull, She moved with her imagination.
This vivid picture that roared like a thousand tides upon the shore. Like crying tears of oil that stick and stain your face. And bubbling thoughts and doubts that change you. She moved whether she wanted to or not.
The voice you hear within is too soft spoken. The fears you drown are much louder. If only this small sailboat was a submarine.