Within the womb of storm’s wide eye,
A hush descended, cold and wide.
It felt like floating through a sigh—
Like truth itself refused to hide.
The cabin rocked with aching bones,
The hull now moaned with deeper strain.
The sailor whispered cryptic tones
To keep at bay his mounting pain.
He saw no ghosts, he spoke no names,
Yet still the night replied in kind.
The thunder played forgotten games
With corners of the broken mind.
The wheel spun loose. The anchor groaned.
But he, alone, endured the tilt.
In solitude, he’d long atoned
For every dream he couldn’t build.
He felt the storm was not a threat—
But mirror, pulsing with intent.
The same as what his mind had met
In years of quiet punishment.
The sea, it seemed, knew every sin.
Its rage was just a tired plea.
To hold the ones who held within
A weight too deep for land or tree.
He screamed—not fear—but recognition,
As if the rain could read his code.
Each bolt of light a premonition,
Each wave a verse in sailor’s ode.
Inside the light, his shadow swayed,
A silhouette of loss and grace.
Against the dark, the soul obeyed—
But never once did he lose face.
And still, the glass before him streamed.
And still, the thunder marked his name.
He knew that what he sought or dreamed
Would never end the way he came.