As powerful as you are pathetic, whimpering, tormented with emotion and manacled to a ship's mast, whipped, clawed at, beaten against by the fists of furious force. Where's your sun now?
A storm, a lull, a tide dictated to by a frowning orb in the sky, its mouth drawn ghastfully agape, raking its glance askim the jagged glass sea and watching you rock in the eye of the squall.
Where's your sun now?
It's days before you reach land. Your sun has come, kissing your sweet face with raw weeping blisters, boring into your blue eyes as if it means to fill your skull with light, and reaching its long arms so far down your throat that a smile would snake dryly from the corners of your mouth and swallow your head in a venomous gulp.
Manacled still, you wait for relief in darkness. You wait for the moon.