wave turning unholy lips swagger lost dead rise twist blade feast edges
The Tide
The tide is not for turning.
It swirls, twists, rises—
The unwary are swept along,
The waters crashing over them.
Below them, below the waves,
The swagger of the dead—
Amused, feasting on their plight.
They too fought and lost
But they offer no advice—
Their lips are sealed,
Their story is well recorded.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Data is a double edged blade.
We are drowning in an unholy,
Unending sea of information.
No supporting driftwood to grasp—
Just a constant, increasing surge
Of floating froth.
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Oh, a most beautifully expressed message for our times. Very well done. I love the opening line. I read it a few times before proceeding. I love the swaggering dead with their sealed lips, the unholy froth of surging emptiness (my words but the image you evoke). Thank you for this. The driftwood stays with me.
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