My mood is as punctual and unstable as the tide

My mood is as punctual and unstable as the tide

as it licks the remains of whatever's washed up today.

Some oily daydream that's no longer blue
but not quite green. Tethered to a sliver
of the waning moon, I wander in concentric
circles. Her gravity remains reliable
even as she disappears. An honest thief.

I'm tired of holding the end of the world
in my half-opened palm, an offering
that goes unheard or unheeded like so many
melancholy verses. Every day a new daydream
is birthed and buried along the shore. Sometimes

the tide knocks down trees and swallows
the town and other times it lulls on the beach
and cradles its head in its hands. I breathe, aware
of the rise and fall of my chest, impermanence,
and the unforgiving nature of nature.