Waves

I am an abandoned fishing cork, 

floating in the immensity of the sea. 

My friend the fly thinks I’m a boat. 

The eagle in the sky 

thinks I’m just this little thing,

always bobbing with the waves, 

without a will of my own.

Sadly I used to agree with him,

and secretly I used to hope,

that one day I’d be able to finally see 

the last of those waves. 

That one day there would finally be 

an eternal calm after the storm. 

But eventually the waves grew on me.

I found mystery in their predictability.

I’ll never know what it feels like to be an eagle,

the eagle will never know what it feels like to be me. 

How I’m scared when the waves get angry,

how when they sleep, I feel alone.

How the waves took away all my color,

how they stole my innocence too.

Oh how I miss them when they are gone.

Through their chaos,

I get to see:

new places, new faces;

new eagles, 

new flies.