Atlantica

Pristine.
In sight, yet
So far out of reach…
Waving, beckoning, calling to me
The lusting, lustful, lure of the sea.
Both forever found, and forever lost,
And only reaching as far
As the end of the sky.
Forced to be a mirror
For one who has no eyes,
And also for many that do.
But yet serves
Only those rare few
That have the sense
And the ability to actually see.