A tide always swept up not down,
Soaring to the top before crashing to the ground,
It fervently reaches for the lustrous stars
But then uneasily clinches and falls.
Almost like it wants to start again,
Scrubbing the seabed with pain,
Revealing what is not to be spoken of
An underbelly which spews and coughs.
Amidst the beauty we see on the surface,
It cracks and shows a different nucleus.
And if the sun didn’t cast a crimson light
The rocks would still paint themselves in might.
Clear is the vision, stunning the landscapes,
But flawed the perception of a quiet peaceful escape!
Maybe if the wind were to lend a voice to this chaos,
It would say, ‘With Freedom there should be no pathos!’