The wind had teeth and the night had claws,
The sea wore a crown of broken glass.
The hull beneath him croaked with flaws,
As memories rippled through the mast.
The beacon behind was just a blink,
The city lights lost in salted haze.
He sailed where shadows dared to sink,
To silence loud with ancient praise.
He was no hero, nor a fool,
Just flesh and will in vessel worn,
Taught by stars and winter’s school,
With skin like rope and eyes weather-torn.
A storm, they said, was rolling fast,
A mouth of thunder, cruel and wide—
But something in him chose to cast
Away from shore and into tide.
The motor grumbled; the wheel was wet,
His fingers tight, but not from fear.
There was a pact he had to vet—
A voice that only he could hear.
Inside the cabin, yellow glow
Bled softly through the heavy rain.
Outside, the gods prepared their show;
Inside, he bore the birth of pain.
The sky fell down in boiling ink,
Waves rose like temples just to fall.
The boat became the final link
Between the world and death’s white hall.
But he… he smiled. He leaned. He stood.
One soul beneath a thousand screams.
He sailed not just because he could,
But chasing echoes found in dreams.