Because you're strong,
no one will try to save you
in a sea of wasteland and you,
a tiny, splintered boat,
each wave's effort to claim you,
shake you from the salty wood
hones the tool.
The irony is: You are the source
of storm as it rushes through you,
clings to your bones like wings
to the whirl.
Addict of grief and love's cycle,
the eye, the wheel, the crest,
you are as stone is heavy yet
you never let go.
