The Tempest’s Confession
Beneath a sky of hammered iron, where gulls dared not ascend,
A ship, gaunt as a widow’s vow, fought waves that knew no end.
Its timbers groaned like dying men, its sails—torn shrouds—unfurled,
And at its helm, a shadow stood, who once had conquered worlds.
His name? The sea had stripped it bare, as salt erodes the stone;
His eyes, two hollowed embers, held a light that war had blown.
The uniform he wore hung loose, a second skin of grime,
Yet in his breast, a letter slept, unread, unborn by time.
Three years had passed since cannons roared their sermons unto dawn,
Since fields, once green as innocence, were into carcasses drawn.
He’d marched with ghosts through fire’s breath, had felt the bullet’s kiss—
A survivor’s brand upon his throat, a heart reduced to mist.
But now, the sea—this rabid beast—its jaws agape and wide—
Cursed his path to northern shores where memory resided.
For there, beneath an ash-strewn sky, a cottage faced the foam,
Where one who wore his youth’s first smile still thought he’d yet come home.
*She waits,* the wind seemed to hiss, *though hope has bleached her hair.
Each dusk, she lights a phantom lamp to guide you through despair.
But what you carry in your fist, that script of rust and fear,
Will drown her brighter than the depths—yet you must bring it near.*
He clutched the envelope, its seal still firm as winter’s vow,
A relic from a comrade lost to some forgotten bough.
“If I should fall,” the man had gasped, “swear this will reach her hands—
My Anne, who counts the tides for me in that far coastal land.”
The soldier swore—though blood and smoke had choked his tongue to ash—
And slipped the plea inside his coat, where shrapnel dared not slash.
But days became a searing blur, a labyrinth of screams,
And when the dawn of peace emerged, the letter stayed—a dream.
Now, as the tempest clawed the deck and waves like accusations rose,
He faced the truth he’d throttled deep, the debt no one discloses:
*Her love was not for you,* it screamed, *you knew, yet let her weep.
You let her wait, though every word you penned was steeped in deceit.*
For in the trenches’ throat, where death had sung its lullabies,
He’d written to the northern girl with another man’s eyes.
His own hand, trembling, forged the lines—*Dear Anne, he thinks of you…*
Each night, a phantom’s tender script, unsigned, untrue, undue.
Why? Not for malice, nor the thrill of some perverse charade,
But because her reply—so fierce, so sweet—had kept his soul from shade.
Her letters, fragrant as crushed thyme, became his stolen breath,
And in that lie, he found a hearth to warm his chill of death.
But now, the storm, in judgment’s voice, demanded restitution:
“You’ve made her love a ghost,” it roared, “a mirrored illusion.
The truth will split her world in two, yet still you clutch the blade—
For if you speak, you lose the light your treachery has made.”
The ship, now dying, gave a moan—a mast cracked like a spine.
He plunged into the liquid night, the letter pressed to mine.
Saltwater sharp as razors carved the flesh from off his bones,
Yet still he swam, though Neptune’s wrath convened with ravenous stones.
At last, the shore—a jagged gash in dawn’s pale, trembling veil—
There, on the cliff, a figure stood, her gown a threadbare sail.
Her face, a map of all the years that hope and grief had waged,
Turned toward the sea, as if her gaze could mend the tempest’s rage.
He crawled, a creature half-transformed, his voice a ruined bell:
“Anne!”—but the wind stole half the sound and left it “An…”, a shell.
She turned, and in her widening eyes, he saw the tempest break—
Not joy, but terror, as if the grave itself began to wake.
“You live?” she whispered, though her feet retreated from the brink.
“Where is he? Where is Thomas, sir? Speak, though the truth may sink.”
The soldier, kneeling, offered up the letter—seal unmarred—
And watched her hands, now old and veined, tear open what was barred.
*My Dearest Anne,* the script began, *if this finds you, I’m gone…*
She read, her breath a staccato hymn, her face a storm withdrawn.
Then, slow as frost on windowpanes, her anguish found its tongue:
“These words… these are his final breath. But yours—what have you done?”
For she had kept each scrap he’d sent, those lies in inky clothes,
And lined her walls with paper dreams to mute the winter’s throes.
“You wrote as him,” she gasped, “each month, while knowing he was dead.
You let me build a life on ash, on vows you never said.”
The soldier, mute, could only bow beneath her tempest gaze.
What plea could mend such ruin? What art could right this maze?
She clutched the letter to her chest, a relic of the true,
Then turned and vanished toward the cliff where darker currents blew.
He followed, limbs as heavy as the sins he could not drown,
And found her there, atop the crag, her eyes fixed on the town
Where children’s laughter wove the air, and wives kissed husbands true—
A world she’d watched, but never touched, since faith her hands had glued.
“I named my son for him,” she said, her voice a hollow flute.
“A boy who thinks his father dwells where sailors chart their route.
What now, when he demands the man your fiction bade exist?
What now, when every truth you spun becomes a serpent’s twist?”
The soldier reached—a word, a touch—but she was already falling,
Her body arcing through the air like autumn’s leaf appalling.
The sea, insatiate, claimed her with a roar of primal lust,
And left him standing, barren, on the cliff of broken trust.
Beneath, the waves devoured both—the letter and the lie—
While somewhere, in a nameless field, a ghost watched from the sky.
And as the dawn bled through the clouds, the soldier stood alone,
His heart a shell, his soul the shore that mercy had disowned.
For years, they say, he haunts the crag, a statue salted gray,
His hands still pressed against the wind to push the truth away.
And in the town, a boy still asks, “When will my father come?”
The sea, eternal in its greed, sings silence, cold and dumb.
A ship, gaunt as a widow’s vow, fought waves that knew no end.
Its timbers groaned like dying men, its sails—torn shrouds—unfurled,
And at its helm, a shadow stood, who once had conquered worlds.
His name? The sea had stripped it bare, as salt erodes the stone;
His eyes, two hollowed embers, held a light that war had blown.
The uniform he wore hung loose, a second skin of grime,
Yet in his breast, a letter slept, unread, unborn by time.
Three years had passed since cannons roared their sermons unto dawn,
Since fields, once green as innocence, were into carcasses drawn.
He’d marched with ghosts through fire’s breath, had felt the bullet’s kiss—
A survivor’s brand upon his throat, a heart reduced to mist.
But now, the sea—this rabid beast—its jaws agape and wide—
Cursed his path to northern shores where memory resided.
For there, beneath an ash-strewn sky, a cottage faced the foam,
Where one who wore his youth’s first smile still thought he’d yet come home.
*She waits,* the wind seemed to hiss, *though hope has bleached her hair.
Each dusk, she lights a phantom lamp to guide you through despair.
But what you carry in your fist, that script of rust and fear,
Will drown her brighter than the depths—yet you must bring it near.*
He clutched the envelope, its seal still firm as winter’s vow,
A relic from a comrade lost to some forgotten bough.
“If I should fall,” the man had gasped, “swear this will reach her hands—
My Anne, who counts the tides for me in that far coastal land.”
The soldier swore—though blood and smoke had choked his tongue to ash—
And slipped the plea inside his coat, where shrapnel dared not slash.
But days became a searing blur, a labyrinth of screams,
And when the dawn of peace emerged, the letter stayed—a dream.
Now, as the tempest clawed the deck and waves like accusations rose,
He faced the truth he’d throttled deep, the debt no one discloses:
*Her love was not for you,* it screamed, *you knew, yet let her weep.
You let her wait, though every word you penned was steeped in deceit.*
For in the trenches’ throat, where death had sung its lullabies,
He’d written to the northern girl with another man’s eyes.
His own hand, trembling, forged the lines—*Dear Anne, he thinks of you…*
Each night, a phantom’s tender script, unsigned, untrue, undue.
Why? Not for malice, nor the thrill of some perverse charade,
But because her reply—so fierce, so sweet—had kept his soul from shade.
Her letters, fragrant as crushed thyme, became his stolen breath,
And in that lie, he found a hearth to warm his chill of death.
But now, the storm, in judgment’s voice, demanded restitution:
“You’ve made her love a ghost,” it roared, “a mirrored illusion.
The truth will split her world in two, yet still you clutch the blade—
For if you speak, you lose the light your treachery has made.”
The ship, now dying, gave a moan—a mast cracked like a spine.
He plunged into the liquid night, the letter pressed to mine.
Saltwater sharp as razors carved the flesh from off his bones,
Yet still he swam, though Neptune’s wrath convened with ravenous stones.
At last, the shore—a jagged gash in dawn’s pale, trembling veil—
There, on the cliff, a figure stood, her gown a threadbare sail.
Her face, a map of all the years that hope and grief had waged,
Turned toward the sea, as if her gaze could mend the tempest’s rage.
He crawled, a creature half-transformed, his voice a ruined bell:
“Anne!”—but the wind stole half the sound and left it “An…”, a shell.
She turned, and in her widening eyes, he saw the tempest break—
Not joy, but terror, as if the grave itself began to wake.
“You live?” she whispered, though her feet retreated from the brink.
“Where is he? Where is Thomas, sir? Speak, though the truth may sink.”
The soldier, kneeling, offered up the letter—seal unmarred—
And watched her hands, now old and veined, tear open what was barred.
*My Dearest Anne,* the script began, *if this finds you, I’m gone…*
She read, her breath a staccato hymn, her face a storm withdrawn.
Then, slow as frost on windowpanes, her anguish found its tongue:
“These words… these are his final breath. But yours—what have you done?”
For she had kept each scrap he’d sent, those lies in inky clothes,
And lined her walls with paper dreams to mute the winter’s throes.
“You wrote as him,” she gasped, “each month, while knowing he was dead.
You let me build a life on ash, on vows you never said.”
The soldier, mute, could only bow beneath her tempest gaze.
What plea could mend such ruin? What art could right this maze?
She clutched the letter to her chest, a relic of the true,
Then turned and vanished toward the cliff where darker currents blew.
He followed, limbs as heavy as the sins he could not drown,
And found her there, atop the crag, her eyes fixed on the town
Where children’s laughter wove the air, and wives kissed husbands true—
A world she’d watched, but never touched, since faith her hands had glued.
“I named my son for him,” she said, her voice a hollow flute.
“A boy who thinks his father dwells where sailors chart their route.
What now, when he demands the man your fiction bade exist?
What now, when every truth you spun becomes a serpent’s twist?”
The soldier reached—a word, a touch—but she was already falling,
Her body arcing through the air like autumn’s leaf appalling.
The sea, insatiate, claimed her with a roar of primal lust,
And left him standing, barren, on the cliff of broken trust.
Beneath, the waves devoured both—the letter and the lie—
While somewhere, in a nameless field, a ghost watched from the sky.
And as the dawn bled through the clouds, the soldier stood alone,
His heart a shell, his soul the shore that mercy had disowned.
For years, they say, he haunts the crag, a statue salted gray,
His hands still pressed against the wind to push the truth away.
And in the town, a boy still asks, “When will my father come?”
The sea, eternal in its greed, sings silence, cold and dumb.
