The waves swashing gently on the rotten plank,
A forlorn sailor looking through the misty night;
With bare hands paddling in the icy water, expression blank,
With no land nor a steady or welcoming haven in sight.
As he was floating through the opaque haze,
His clothes covered in drops of dew and froth;
The sea transpiring into an inescapable maze,
now calm but once fierce, untamable and wroth.
He realized no soul was going to rescue him from his sotty grave,
Even if one was swimming with him he would row for himself.
For people aren't cruel, callous, cold or unwilling to waive,
They just think they are the most crucial book in lifes' shelf.