Poseidon

He does not knock, he does not ask,
He tears the shore like it’s a mask.
A crown of kelp, a beard of foam,
The sea’s unrest, the deep’s own home.

His voice is thunder born of waves,
A call that echoes into caves.
He stirs the tides with tempered wrath,
And drowns regret along his path.

One moment calm, a lull, a hush,
The next—a storming, vengeful crush.
Ships split like shells beneath his gaze,
While whirlpools dance in deathly praise.

The trident strikes, and coastlines break,
The earth will quake, the heavens shake.
He rides upon the seahorse tide,
A god no mortal dares to guide.

Yet when he weeps, the sky turns grey,
And dolphins circle where he lay.
A moody god, both grand and grim,
The ocean’s soul begins with him.

So tread with care where waters roll,
For Poseidon claims both fish and soul.

© 2025