There's something less than vaguely human on this face

Something that speaks to terror and violence and hands curled as claws in the night, muscles twitching for blood

I catch glimpses of it from time to time and try to stop my ears for

The accompanying doubt hums rythmically, gathering speed and crashing along like waves charging towards shore or out to sea or in stampedes like horses that crush civilians against cliffs they have no hopes of climbing

The sirens shriek louder, harkening the coming storm on the otherwise tide-less expanse

(An ocean of artificial calm and of indeterminate depth)

Until a full-fledged hurricane sweeps me under and the only available solace is the chanting that promises relief and abandonment;

"It was a nice try, but portraits of sailors never return to the sea."