The Witness on the Shore

The roof tiles shriek, torn by an invisible hand, Salt-cracked windows weep for the drowning land. Here, there is no hope—only the splintered wood, The wreckage of dreams where the garden once stood. We are too close to the teeth, too deep in the throat, Watching the fragments of our history float.

But turn your gaze where the salt-spray dies, To where the ocean meets the heavy, bruised skies. Far out at sea, the monster becomes a queen, A towering pillar of violet, gold, and green. The lightning isn't a strike; it’s a pulse, a spark, A crown of white fire draped over the dark. From the shore, it is ruin; from the deep, it is grace, The raw, beating heart of a celestial space.