Atlantic Thoughts

Upon a tale of twisted turns
the aroma of salted tears
scattered me to an ocean,
far away.

I begged for hushes,
those silent pauses
that never came,
that day.

Bathing with sharks
was acceptable back then
for I was a vixen; some
would say.

Scattered Nightingale
whirlwind at best
just a love song unwritten,
by the bay.