Man in the lifeboat on the open sea,
Dry land so far, too far to even think,
No ration pack, and cruellest irony,
With water all around he cannot drink,
All he can do is hover on the brink
Of hope, despair, and slow oblivion;
The sky is clear, would it were dark as ink,
But promise of a rainstorm is long gone,
His thirst unbearable: what use to carry on?
Man in the crowd, alone and wandering,
Grim-faced, once bright eyes dulled with self-neglect,
Another day adrift, what will it bring?
Perhaps a friend, perhaps a curt rejectí,
He lives in expectation, stands erect,
Although his hope has long been whittled down
To almost nothing and, with sad reflectí
He thinks how once his world was pink, not brown.
Man overboard: ítis swift and merciful to drown.
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