The island's rocky columns rise upward.
Its gray and green was tiny, but now looms.
A giant jutting rock that stands on high,
and shades the white sand beach and coral sea.
This island will be home from now 'til doom.
One's gratitude for fists of sand first swells,
but it will crash in time with tedium.
Could a sea death beat solitary life?
One lives and dies by coconut water --
day after day - week after week,
and dreams of company and comfort food,
while knowing this is hell and paradise.
What prison is this island - place unknown -
that like Schrödinger's box shrouds life & death?
Adrift at sea for days and days,
who knows how it will end?
Your body sloshes like the waves,
but as your mind descends.
Your mouth is dry; your body pruned.
In thirst, the water taunts.
But - ever wet - your skin sloughs off.
When soaked, the water haunts.
The sun burns hot. Then fog rolls in,
and senses are deprived.
And washing up on vacant shores,
you find that you've arrived.
You know not where - but feel relief.
Land monsters can't be worse
than those that grab you by the mind
while high seas you traverse.