The air is heavy, thick with rot,

salt and sweat and things forgot.

It clings like hands that will not break,

that grasp too tight, that take and take.

The boards above her bend and groan,

a beast that shifts, a thing half-bone.

Boots pace steady, back and forth,

like wolves that scent the wound beneath,

like hunters circling something weak.

The sea is close—it calls, it cries,

its breath is sharp, it stings her eyes.

It slaps the hull with hungry hands,

like those that clawed against her door,

that whispered first, then took by force.

She curls into the dark, alone,

her prayers swallowed in the foam.

No god would dare to listen here,

where mercy drowns beneath the fear.

The tide may take her, drag her deep,

wrap her tight and let her sleep.

The ocean rages, cruel and blind—

but still, it would be far more kind.