Another moving vessel,
this woman.
She's a delicate piece of machinery.
Everyone wants her
to be their corkscrew;
it's tangible madness.
And madness turns to glass,
and glass into brokenness.
A victim of occupied Europe,
the people she meets bring aneurysms
and constellations of war.
She loved to have a swim before bed,
treading water for rhythms
and under harvest moon,
sailing around troubled continents
where conflict might harbor.
The sea is bottomless,
breathing within it is an archetype,
until her nervous methods
turn submissive.
Tatuś used to talk of nobility,
and how its clandestine intentions
made for gentle waves.
Freedom might be a master illusion,
but she must swim mightily
towards it with each
collapsing breath.
Otherwise, she would surely drown
in the unforgiving arms
of the high seas.