In a cold sea teeming with
misconceptions and superficial kisses,
is a small boat,
and inside is a flame, meek but strong,
with no plan of ever being put out ever again.
And that boat will float
oh so slowly, in a pace that pleases itself,
because it’s done with the fast lane.
Been there, done that, been back and forth,
and now the mind is made up.
The vast, blue wilderness is clear,
misconceptions and superficial kisses aside,
the lone sailor;
some might call him blasé, unknowing of pain, no longer drowning
in others’ emotions. The lone sailor is so numb that he’s alien,
motionless, pride in his eyes, experience and wisdom in his eyes.
No longer a victim,
some might call him an outsider,
but he can’t care less.