By: Karoline Wimmer

A rolling tide
cannot hide,
in the worst of dreams,
it lights the match
that sets the fire
to the darkest of desires.

If seas had been sweeter
than the fairest of all ladies,
they would have met
with great contempt
the most hunch-backed of all the broken men.

Yet, seas have lost their sweetness
as the rolling tide knows all too well,
for the passing of time
refuses to hide
the burn that flows through
the body at night,
only to stop with the drowning cry,
of the last man standing on the shores of the endless sky.

The tide has its way,
now and again,
to signalize the minute quietly as it ends,
the warning to the mighty
has never been taken lightly,
as monsters in hiding
burn at its very sighting.