Under a capricious moon, the tides whisper secrets. Oh, sweet moon with a clockwork heart, how you tick-tock away the moments as I gaze upon the ebb and flow.
The night wants to speak, and its voice is the echo of waves crashing against the shores of time. Can you hear it? The clock knows, it always knows when the night wishes to converse in riddles and rhymes.
Sometimes I wonder if the tides know where they go, or if they're just following a path drawn in starlight unknown to us mere mortals.