Tide, Rising Poem by Seamus O' Brian

There is a hunger down in the channels
of my being, somewhere aground
on the tidal shoals of my inward currents,
the slack tide lapping against some
obstruction, some indefinable mass
rocking slightly in the wavering
uncertainty of who I am,
razored edge of barnacle masses,
clumping about protrusions of
regret and guilt, spiking the silt,
touching some raw, living layer
with each shifting wave, sending
vibrations of visceral discomfort
throughout my being, as if the edge
of today was some probing point
set to discover the cavitary decay
of all my tomorrows.

A tattered sail flutters from this
sand-barred ship, each snap
of the torn edge speaks my name
to the winds sent to devour this
inefficient composition of dust
and soul, and my futility dissolves
as the silt reclaims the ship upon
whose stern my name once belonged.

And the rising tide carries away
the memory of a voyage once
imagined, once attempted, yet
forever remembered as mine.