Crisis on the Water

I’ve seen them depart.
1,2,3, and 4; now I’m here alone.
Overcast with a window view; it’s raining outside and inside.
Here it’s cold and wet, like the beach in Nassau County.
I’m under the ocean in my living room.
Alone on the couch, I’m resting beneath a mile of water.
Sunk like the Titanic, my ethics were her sister-ship.
Thought to be “unsinkable”; or hardy to say the least.
But I ran upon an iceberg, it chilled me to the core.
I tried to save the passengers, tried to save the ship.
The water rushed my head and buckled my bulkheads.
And even with the life vests, they all drowned alone.
The strong have all died; died like what I believed.
Now I rest alone, a mile under the Atlantic.
With no evidence of my shipwreck still floating on the surface.
And no governments looking for my corpse; no one even knows that I sank.
They think I still haunt the sea, with a boat, a crew, and passengers.
But I only haunt the ocean floor and my living room, with no ethics and no passengers.