No man is an island;
Rather, he is a liferaft from a sinking ship,
Desperately trying to run from death
But ultimately losing himself or suffering a flip.
He is a message in a bottle,
Tossed away like a piece of trash,
Begging to be read and understood
But usually ending up as beaver stash.
He is a child caught in a riptide,
Pulled away from those he loves
And lost beneath the dark, cold waves,
Never again to see the graceful doves.
He is a sailboat lost at sea,
Hoping to be reclaimed by Mother Civilization
But usually ending up as firewood
For some Pacific Island nation.
Pulled, ripped, yanked,
From the ones we love.
Drifting away slowly,
Can we expect hope from above?
Life is the ocean,
And we are simple debris.
You decide to swim nearby
And then drift into the deep blue sea.