THE PULL OF THE TIDE

THE PULL OF THE TIDE

The sea gnaws at my bones, waves snarling like starved wolves under a bruised sky,

my heart a salt-sick wreck, teetering on reefs of doubt—do I chase your ghost or flee its bite?

I’d plunder that night’s velvet pulse, slip through the crack of your dreams like moonlight’s thief,

but the clocks jeer, their hands carving my prayers into driftwood, daisies rotting in my fists.

Time’s a cutthroat, pocketing our moments in its shadowed coat, leaving only fear’s brittle shell,

a sunrise bled dry, its warmth now a husk sinking in the undertow’s grip.  

Shame weaves a net of jagged coral, snaring the name lodged in my throat—yours, a splintered oar I clutch,

its weight chokes my voice, each syllable a lover’s echo drowned in the deep’s cold maw.

Marooned on this jagged shore, boots grind shells to dust, each step a hymn for home I can’t find,

the compass spins wild, no stars to guide us, no map to stitch our frayed seams.

Memories hiss like foam, their frost-bitten whispers clawing my skin, dragging me through sunken years,

a rigged game where every roll lands on regret, every wave pulls me back to what was lost.  

Yet in the storm’s roar, a spark flickers—gold threads pierce the iron shroud I’ve worn too long,

not salvation, but a knife to cut the knots of this dream’s cruel maze, to free me from the wreck.

I learn the art of letting go, not us, but me—salvaging my breath from the tide’s greedy pull,