The songs that drove him to this end are not gone,
But have quietly become the gentle rush of the tide against his lifeless body.
The soft and lulling voice that drew him out to sea,
now replaced by the sounds - forever entrapped in the empty shell beside his.

What happened to my ship and compass, my sextant and sail?
Where did the desire and need to chance pass my lips against hers take me?
Is this that end, cast out of her like drift wood to dry bone white in the sun?
Am I now gone, to be consumed by the earthly hungry sea?

Will I be entombed in the bellies of a thousand beasts?
Will my heart make for fishes feasts?
Will your song again revive me true?
Will our end give way to timeless depths of oceans blue?

Is this a dream?
Your dream?
My dream?
A dream?