The man, floating
Probably alone
Concealing his own shallow footprint
The blue underneath
A mirage of a xerox of his reflection
Taunting him
Partaking in his demise

When out of the corner of his eye
An old friend says hi
Coming to him
Swaying to him, as always
Since this was the first of many
Times they met in the deep end
Stopping, encouraging
Pushing him along to the source of it

With its mighty trunk
Trudging the lake of the listless souls
Its work knows no end, but it endures
And it never minds the distance
Because it doesn't have a clue
Where it started from

The tide that was here
With and without both of them