Storm-Worn Sailing

My ship is small upon the deep,

its boards are scarred and worn,

the waves that lick its trembling sides

were born to break and tear

Below, the ancient monsters wait,

with eyes like a hungry flame,

circling where the shadows churn,

whispering my name.

The sea is cold and reaching,

its fingers made of ice—

it claws against the ship and dreams

of dragging down my life.

The winds are sharp as prophecy,

they bite and snap my sails;

I patch them with what scraps I have

and pray they still prevail.

The horizon feels like miles away,

no warm shore in my sight,

just endless blue and darker blue,

day fading into night.

Yet something in the salty air

speaks promises of land—

a shore that waits like mercy

and a future yet unsand.

So forward through the waters,

though storms may bruise and bend;

I set my course through trembling,

believing in the end.

For one day I’ll reach the quiet coast,

where monsters cannot tread,

and stretch upon the golden sand

that once was only said.

And though the sea may long for me,

and storms may chase my mast—

still I was made for shoreline homes,

not swallowed by the past.

So onward sails my beaten ship,

where warmth and peace will be—

for torn or not, I’m sailing still,

and hope is guiding me