32 - Wet lung

Blood in the water, Bleeding heart martyr-
And those little hands that cling, dead, to sand.
Bloodied hands as I tug them to harbor,
They brought it on themselves, you understand.

Don't think me bitter, closer to callous,
It looks to me like the storm's abated.
You're malapropos in this palace,
A usurping corpse to seize the hated.

A burial at sea would be fitting,
But you're a sign of more, unremitting.