The Storm

I was once a quiet sea,
steady, wide, and always there,
letting tides decide for me,
giving more than what was fair.

I thought warmth alone would bind,
that patience served as ballast true,
that if I poured out all I had,
no one I loved would drift from view.

But oceans do not bargain well,
nor winds obey a faithful hand.
I learned too late what giving costs
when I gave without learning where to stand.

For love without a backbone bends,
becomes a whisper, thin and brief,
a promise lost to shifting skies,
a kindness offered with no teeth.

Then something deep within me turned—
not rage, not spite, not wounded pride.
The winds I feared, I studied first,
then learned to read, then learned to ride.

I am no longer open sea,
at mercy of the moon’s command.
I am the storm with plotted course,
with measured force, with chosen land.

The storm does not demand belief,
nor beg for shelter from the rain.
It moves by law, by pressure earned,
by purpose held, not want or pain.

It breaks what cannot hold its shape
and leaves what’s rooted standing still.
It clears the air, redraws the map,
then passes on by strength of will.

Some stand ashore and watch the clouds,
mistake resolve for threat or change.
But weather is not born to please,
nor meant to linger, tame, or strange.

The sea I was no longer waits.
That tide has turned. That calm has fled.
What moves now answers only truth,
and goes where it has chosen, led.