He is filth and brine,
Accumulates in cracks along the water's edge,
A scab, a plague, a festering mass,
Beloved in the way one loves an old, sick pet,
A quaint memento which cannot be discarded,
But which no longer serves its initial purpose,
A pox whose only vaccine is the momentum of time,
When he will eventually stop being,
As even stars may die,
Not much longer now,
He will soon find the rest he has earned,
Oblivion, infinite and empty,
Sweet and cold like he always hoped it would be.
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