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Serpentine flourish

cradled by a toxic vein,

filled with brown water.

Boats like pathogens,

adrift in the murk, do stray;

but not far, for long.

I tolerate glare;

my observations suffer,

but I shan't despair,

though I am aware

of the leaks I have sustained.

I envy their hulls;

those stolid vessels.

They endure the waste, and shine

in spite of the grime.

However I must

accumulate so much bilge -

where are my rotors?

My anchor's chain rots,

the barnacles are roosting.

Sutures, all for not.