The trumpeting of foghorn o’er murky wave
careens across ear and eye alike,
all the while I am locked upon
your grandiose figure,
inspiring souls of thousands with
demure expression and promises
of freedom following.
The biting winds nip at exposed
lip and ears,
turning pink to blue,
contemplation to determination.
I make this journey,
emulating ancestral human hope
as merely another face in a crowd
of hundreds.
Majesty lost, nonetheless still
an angel upon the sea,
teeming ants clamber their ways
to stand within your presence.
Appreciate they do not,
understand they cannot,
the point has passed and
we trail behind in facsimile.