Harbor.

Up and down each row I'm pacing as the tension grows thick
while each perpetual pick is laid on each apprehensive brick.
Through the mortar and the pestle I can see the end so clearly
but the morons at the port-house can't see a "T" from a rosary.

With each supported beam the foundation gets sturdy
and my aborted dream lies abandon and dirty.
If I watch another brick I doubt I'll live another day
but the tension's growing thick inside the Harbor Bay. 



Hellbent, not heaven sent,
it's not ringing in my ears bringing my lament.
It's calmness now, but you know the storm is coming
and at the end of my stride, I'm the last one running.

Patient now, not eternally antsy,
it's not the blood in my veins causing my truancy.
It's the fog that blends the ocean from the sand
and when I reach the sea, I'll be digging with my hands.