Adrift on the tide of a restless mind,
Where thoughts like gulls cry loud and blind,
The stars are charts I cannot read—
Each flicker a half-forgotten need.
The sails are stitched from might-have-beens,
From whispered truths and paper-thin sins.
The wind is made of words unsaid,
Of stories dreamed and quickly fled.
Oceans swell with fractured schemes,
Echoes of long-forgotten dreams,
And every wave a question’s crest,
No harbor clear, no time for rest.
A compass spins with frantic grace,
North is a thought I cannot trace.
I chase the shape of something whole,
But lose the line, the thread, the goal.
A thousand voices rise and fall—
None loud enough to make the call.
They murmur poems I almost write,
Then drown in foam and vanish night.
Yet somewhere deep, beneath the spray,
A single word still finds its way—
A spark, a breath, a guiding star—
To tell me who and where we are.
So I drift, not lost, but searching still,
Beyond the wave, beneath the will.
Each idea a ghost, each ghost a flame—
All calling out in silence: Name.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
Discover more from Writing Through the Soul
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
