Hymn of the Sea
The ocean, they say, sings of beauty profound,
A whispering blue where all secrets are drowned.
But no poet has touched what lies deep in its core.
The abyss where the heart roars and calls for no more.
You poisoned my soul with the sweet taste of lies,
A venomous tide beneath glittering skies.
You struck with your words, sharp as a knife,
And left me to drown in the depths of my strife.
You think you’ve escaped, proud of the sin,
While I sink deeper, where darkness begins.
The water now swirls, it curls round your neck,
But you stand unaware, your feet still a wreck.
The waves, they embrace you, a calm lullaby,
Yet something is wrong, your breath starts to die.
You’ve tasted the salt, you’ve felt the swell,
But the ocean is cruel, its heart full of hell.
You know the rhythm, the dance of the tide,
But it’s the storm in your soul that you cannot hide.
A wave comes for you, soft, a tender caress,
At first, just a kiss, no fear to suppress.
But soon it grows mighty, sharp as a spear
And you cannot escape what’s drawing near.
The crash, the roar, the relentless embrace,
It pulls you under, lost without a trace.
You think you’ve conquered the ocean’s delight,
But the sea has a mind of its own tonight.
It’s not just the waves, the beauty, the blue,
It’s the terror that whispers and beckons to you.
The water is rising, your shoulders are bare
But you cannot swim; you can only stare.
So go on, stand proud, pretend you are free,
But the ocean will have what you cannot see.
It waits for the moment, the break in your lie,
And when the waves break, we’ll both drown and die.
The Poet’s Curse
I am a poet, and therefore not sane,
So! I seek the burden, the dance with pain.
The world sets me on fire,
Both curse and my heart’s deep desire. Each verse I write, each rhyme I craft,
Is a fragment of my soul buried in the past. I tame the word,
Yet I am nothing but its servant, its voiceless bird.
The world put me in a cage,
And therefore I am filled with an unspoken rage.
In endless strife, I labour through the night, the words my weapon, I am their knight.
Haunted by whispers, in desperate search of light,
A curse, above all realms, a flight.
Not just this world, but those unseen,
Where thoughts take shape and fate turns keen.
I weave words into my mane,
To reach for the stars and guide desperate souls in vain.
Yet I flee through books, my essence captivated by their spell, from reality.
The weight of existence must never touch my sanity.
For every stanza, every page,
Is inked with the truths of my inner cage.
The burden I carry spills and stains, Through poems and books, through joys and pains.
They say words must stir the soul,
To comfort the broken, to make them whole.
Yet also to shatter the tranquil guise,
To awaken the world with piercing cries.
The word is the sorcery we wield,
A power to from which all must yield.
I cry and haunt for a glimpse of the divine,
So I catch the verses and add them to my shrine,
Never to be made a simple maid of thine.
And though poetry devours, though art consumes,
The poet persists in shadowed rooms.
For in the chaos of the mind’s parade,
A piece of eternity is quietly made.
A Whisper in Heaven’s Veil
The flowers bloom, they catch the light,
Each petal soft, a whispered flight.
Yet once they shine, their beauty’s torn,
Picked, admired, soon bent and worn.
A fleeting grace, a brilliant spark,
Then silence falls, and night grows dark.
Poets seek what nature gives,
They chase the light, as the flower lives,
Capturing youth with crafted rhyme,
Suspended, stolen from all time.
Yet I, who stand in endless spring,
Feel no decay, no broken wing.
Immortal in my heart’s design,
As if the gods had made me thine.
For beauty calls and steals the soul,
Yet intellect, untouched, feels whole.
The world may see the rose’s face,
And miss the mind, its deeper grace.
A paradox, this fleeting life,
Shall I live in pleasure, or in strife?
To blossom once, and then to fade,
Or rise, untouched by time’s cascade,
Would I prefer to simply be
Admired, a vision forever free?
Oh, I would love to be the muse,
Not bound by brush, nor poet’s shoes.
For beauty dies, but thoughts remain,
The soul persists, though forms decay.
Yet still I envy those whose light
Does not wither, nor take flight.
So let me be your song, your sigh,
Not bound by time, nor earthly cry.
For in my youth I stand apart,
An endless bloom within my heart.
And if you seek what never dies,
Look past the flower, see the skies.