Shaken by the storm
of a life lived on the line,
safe in nobody's arms
and unseen in the picture.

Draped across a kneeling rock,
worn by the rain,
wearing the old threads
that hang on like climbers.

A bell tolls defiantly against the crashing waves,
standing up to the beating,
like a war-torn village.
Life intact, despite its years.

And stone walls, blackened from rot,
lack of attention and care,
expected to maintain their parental protection,
are only as strong as they look
from the raging sea.
And only as real as the canvas they live on.

The rain is my home.
Where I have lived my days and nights,
and from where I draw my strength.
And the boat was always empty.

Rage on, angry ocean.
You've come this far.