In this world surging ahead,

I linger like a dusk mist, 

oscillating between fleeting peace 

and relentless sorrow.

A bitter wave churns within,

held back by clenched teeth 

and a tightened throat.

I am metamorphosed, bare,

wounded, and scarred; a poet.

Somehow, it leads me 

to the ocean’s edge.

The wind, both gentle and insistent, 

threads through my hair, 

my shirt twisted in its grasp.

I contemplate the forces

compelling writers to spill

their souls onto paper, 

and what drives me to do the same.

Hands entwined as if in prayer 

attempt to stifle the encroaching 

melancholy that ensnares me.

Phantom pains of severed tendons 

throb beneath the surface of my wrist;

sharp stings whispering reminders

 that sins lie closer than redemption,

echoing through corridors 

where anger casts its shadow.

I cover my words with a veil,

suppressing the unspoken;

they retreat, hiding within my ribs.

A stark scene surrounds me:

Death looms beneath a brooding sky.

A briny scent hangs heavy 

as she approaches,

a faint metallic tang lingers

on my tongue–

unuttered confessions 

on the brink of realization.

The sea, a gaping maw, swallows whole

my frail form, my brittle bones.

My lips spill a siren's song, 

a whisper lost in the roaring foam.