The waves were like vipers,
picking of weary sailors from
                                           the deck.

Plucking them with fangs of stinging
waves, taking those unsuspecting
                                            from the deck.

Drowning them in the sorrows
                   that suffocated them beneath the
        planks they were washed upon.

So many swords were never lifted
                             but fell submerged silently.
Falling beneath the honour that sank before them.

But like creeping ivy, they were woven upon.
                    Seaweed forests clasping upon those
weary travellers that sang into slumbering bereavement.

Still the forests that fed on the rainfall of what
             decayed falling statically from above,
                              nourishment in silent surrendering's.