He stares out into the darkness and the surf, waiting
     on a rocky chair molded from the side of the cliff... just waiting.
          His feet swing back and forth over the expanse, creating
          small showers of pebbles as they fall careening against the ledge.
     Theirs is the only motion to be seen, yet he does not look down, but out.
His eyes don't blink, and his lip is stiff, and his heart does not pound, but whispers a soft staccato beat into his veins, numbing his senses to the cold.
A ship appears on the horizon, and its gull white sails stand sharp
against the contrast of the night blackened sky, and in that moment
               his heartbeat stops...
                                                   but only for a moment;
                           for just that one moment.
Then in anguish it resumes, and its desolate beat plays on.
The sails are white, but they bear no red cross marker.
Flags of the wrong shade fly atop the mast, and the sky grows darker
as his feet swing against the cliffside, and his heart whispers consolation;
His heart beats desolation as he waits for another ship to come to harbor.