In the silence beneath the tides,
whispers paint shadows on the seabed,
thoughts like drifting kelp
weaving through currents of timelessness.
With every rise and fall, I gather
words sculpted by salt and moonlight,
cradled in the embrace of brine—
a language only the heart understands.
An echo of whispers, an echo of dreams,
spoken by voices unseen,
yet felt in the sway of unseen hands
that beckon from the watery void.
To the traveler, know the tides
are custodians of secrets
that sleep within phantom shores,
until the dawn calls them home.
Here lies the junction,
between the tides and the breeze,
the eternal hum of what is
and what might have been.