She weeps not for the shore
As distance creates a shadow
She embraces the current
Becoming the wave
And gently pushes her sea home

She chases not the sun
As the day is put to rest
She is the moonlight
That cradles the stars
Tightly to her *******

She yearns not
Her pain-streaked tears
That fall below her feet
She is the soil beneath her toes
Her pain now colors the tree

She worries not
The flowers' bloom
Or the leaves that fall like rain
She is the wind
That will kiss the ground
And sweep it all away

Watching my days on a crimson slide,
Born with the moon and run with the tide.
Faces in the shapes and the shifts to hide
Running to the wind on my crimson tide.

Reaching for the places, the faces all shied,
Saving all the graces and the races were tied.
The lock has a key and a bolt to hide,
The faces had the traces of a crimson lie.

The moonlight shone with the sun and sea,
The silver sickles tickled as they struck at me.
I'm free to be trapped and trapped to be free,
A world awash in crimson is all I see.

I'm all that I am and I will try to be,
Stuck to the sand and poured in the sea.
Rough to the hands, and cool and sweet
Crimson is no prison when you are born free

I’ve always believed that we were on the same wavelength,
but never the same tide.
From here I can almost see the sea
with you on the other shore.
Are you reaching out to me? Or is this morning fog too strong?

I glance at you from the other side of the room,
hoping that maybe you are looking back
wondering if I was looking back at you.
My eyes shift down when they’re tangled in your sight.
I wish you’d notice me.

There has only been a few times when you stood close to me.
As I felt the heat radiating off your tall body
a hurricane collided. The tides have crashed.
It feels like lightning running through my veins
then it all stops when you step away.

In little ways you remind me that we belong together
but you don’t see it like I do.
Of course you don’t.
It’s been eight years. By now,
I figure you’d realize it too.

It’s lonely being on this side of the ocean.

dreams of the tide,
loneliness,
bold landscapes,
a breeze blowing roses.

Rising from the sand at low tide,
The shipwreck’s spars, brown wet, decaying
Reaching like skeletal fingers, grasping
For one last piece of the breaking daylight
Tentacles of seaweed, woven
Wrapped around decaying planks
Anchoring it firmly
To Davy Jones’ Locker
Barnacle encrusted planks
Lie twisted, turned, unnatural
Frozen in a final plea of mercy
Before white tipped monsters
Crashed across the bow,
Splitting,  tearing masts
Sending it to the murky depths

where the night
scatters into the
leafy forests
and hides behind
the thundering rocks.
where the night dreams
of blue tides and grey skies.

this is the moon's
quiet rose, the unfolding
of the clouds, tranquility
resting her head,
the beautiful sea.