My Poetry. The Neon Tide.

The cradle of life is a salt-crusted blue,
Where the whales sing in canyons of old.
But a new kind of current is shivering through,
In colors too bright and too cold.
It isn’t the coral, it isn’t the kelp,
That tangles the turtle's slow flight,
But a ghost in the water that cries for no help,
Shimmering, jagged, and light.

A harvest of bottles, a vintage of bags,
Drifting through kingdoms of glass.
The silver-scaled hunter among the white rags,
Watches the centuries pass.
But the plastic is patient, it doesn’t decay,
It breaks into diamonds of dust,
Small enough now for the plankton to play,
A feast of a hollower trust.

The tide brings the tribute of cities and shores,
The toys and the wrappers of greed,
Swept from the gutters and through the Great Doors,
To settle where giants once freed.
The belly of hunger is heavy with beads,
The surface is filmed with a glint,
As the ocean, in silence, absorbs all our needs,
Bearing our permanent print.

Oh, listen at night to the lap of the wave,
It carries a lesson of stone:
What we give to the deep is the path that we pave,
And we never shall walk it alone.
For the sea is a mirror, vast and profound,
Reflecting the choices we make—
May we heal the blue silence before we are drowned
In the debris of all that we break.