In darkness never ending, I swim from shore to shore
wondering why it is I swim forever more.
My favourite parts? The light house in every stormy bay,
that in the depths of my despair, pull me along the way

These moments feel quite easy, not like waters yore,
Which leads me to believe that there might be something more
Some grander scheme or picture of which we are but a stroke,
Of a brush in a master piece of which an artist never spoke

Without us it would hold its beauty to all the eyes but one
That of the toiling painter working beneath the moon or sun,
Makes us quite in important whilst diminishing our worth
And yet I’ve yet to find agreement in any cove or berth

But it’s a thing I have to trust, as I do lonely roam
Without it I would choose to drown beneath the white sea foam
Is it not a way of knowing what I do is not for naught
I’m not sure if the answer lies in religions we were taught.

But perhaps in something older, some power laid to sleep
This hope that maybe we matter whilst in this sea so deep
What is it that they’re hiding or once thought they had to hide
Perhaps this world is built, of the tears the lonely cried.

But are we meant to be this alone? Was that our given plight
To pass as lonely swimmers the waves drowning out our fight
Or were we meant to swim with friends, what would that mean?
Companionship, camaraderie the likes of which we’ve never seen.

I’m not sure that it matters, I know that I am stuck.
Stuck in between those that care and me, just my luck
For honestly as my toils go on against the sea
It matters not, I can’t feel them there, just me.

There’s no one there but me