The whisper travels swift beneath the seas,
currents known only to the shadowed kelp.
Intuition unfurls, a sail tethered not to ship or shore,
contemplating the abyss from ocean-blue dreams.
Echoes _.the_. unheard_,._ fractured pearls__ in alabaster quandaries,
breakthroughs swallowed by crashing minds, not storming waves.
Could this silent intuition whisper yet another lie
within the meditative hum of body, sea, and time?
Drenched thoughts sink below, reluctantly born from shadowed depths
where moons pulse in cold repose—the tide knows.
Thoughts undulate, weaving specters with rhythmic certainty,
as whispers chant an unreadable mantra of loss, of found.
Dare traverse unseen brinks, whale voices anew,
like echoes looping memories of distant shores.
Daring souls pulse through the murmur, through the wave,
the ocean outcomes all inclinations with honest abandon.
At the shore's end, where sand surrenders to the moon's whisper,
sleep, not rest, shall find the tempered watcher of tides.
When presence completes surrender unto the void's embrace,
utterance returns—a whisper becomes the sea's crimson thread.
Must we believe the truth else reveals? Or can we remain, immersed,
in the hypnotic murmur __of the__ tidal thoughts weaving along fate's edge?