On the chalky cliffs
and midnight shores
of the wild wind-whipped sea,
her waves cresting like horses
galloping through the plains,
I weep a tributary to her rage
for a thousand lives she takes
yet a thousand lives she cannot live
weaving fishermen’s nets
of gossamer silk and pearls,
catching all but what she craves
so she storms grey lightning,
wails hurricanes, and howls typhoons
but a life is a life
and even she, immortal and ageless,
cannot step outside the cage
of mere existence