Now the sins just sat as anchors on the ocean floor, leaving him burning in the possibility of a sun navigation away from his current self, the currents of his Self. The waves, pushing like people prodding him to snap out of his state, they don’t realise that his pockets are heavy with sand bags of guilt, they don’t realise those anchors were attached to him by pirates of the soul, tricky scoundrels who had all but forgotten him. They don’t realise that his sails were acid filled arms weary from attempted paddle that he couldn’t raise to catch a heavenly wind.
People still sail by him, laughing at his broken bow, pointing at his weathered sails and shaking their heads at his half sunken vessel.
Their day will come when their travels will be questioned.
His day will come when rust and salt are no longer the only taste in his mouth, where he can finally taste forgiveness on the shores.