vanity

i’m told the sea’s lonely again,
staring at the moon, but then,
depending which ones you follow, the scene itself is Vanity;
let it depend on gravity,
not the strange non-magnetism
which keeps the waves from touching sky,
but that which makes one run from dying.

what a strange thing regret must be,
to cause humanity to flee,
to chase after the strong desire
to set things right, fix misery.

what nightmares it must galvanise.
i gaze upon my own demise
with wistful, watchful, wary eyes.