The shallow beaches sag, becoming vast sea below.
Where soap box shipwrecks will never be explored.
We green soldiers set out to find we were never loved--
We were only envied.
Our vessel was made of longing.
Our sails, defeat.
Lost in the yellow brine.
In this inverse world,
We dwell upon our mistaken glory.
It turns out we're not surrounded by sea.
Our dwelling is fenced in by potted vegetation and tile.
There are bronzing, tormented, former sailors steadfast nearby.
Unfortunately, many are hardened against particularity
and shift into statues in the daylight.
But here in our dubiousness,
we ascend.
We are no longer surrounded by band-aid marine beasts
and quarter-dollar treasures once held dearly--
now not slightly.
Some golden serpents wishfully smile as we pass.
Ignore and disregard them with blind eye and deaf ear.
Finally, swimmingly,
we are discovered by two utmost conceptionists;
they are divers exploring a shipwreck.
Today we are astronauts together.
It is hard to fathom we started as mere plastic--
mere statues.
Never expected to soar beyond stagnant tide and crimson blue.
Now we are moon men.
We were statues,
and have been molded into men.
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