Obsidian Tide

The lighthouse beam carves a hollow path Through the fog that clings to the basalt coast. Waves, heavy with dark sediment, Breathe against the stone, A slow rhythm of erasure.

Stars are drowned in the maritime overcast, Leaving only the sound of water breaking And pulling back, dragging pebbles In a harsh, percussive exhale That settles into the marrow of the night.

I stand where the land surrenders, Feeling the chill ascend through my boots. The horizon is an assumption, A line drawn in the mind Where the black sea meets the black sky.