There are tales whispered on the edges of the tide of a woman neither born nor made, but conjured from longing itself. She exists where memory meets water, where myth merges with mourning. She is the soul of the ocean’s lament, the ghost of every goodbye never uttered. This poem follows her silent vigil, her undying presence in the deep, as she drifts between divinity and despair, belonging to no world but haunting both.

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She rose from salt, from song, from sky,
A ripple stitched to twilight’s hem,
The sea knelt low to hear her cry,
A hymn the world forgot again.

Her gown was not of silk or lace,
But woven from the flood’s despair,
Each thread a storm, each fold a face,
Of sailors lost to midnight’s glare.

She walked where gods had feared to tread,
Above the rocks, beneath the moon,
The wind bowed low, the waters bled,
Yet none could claim her as their boon.

She was not born of mortal land,
No cradle rocked her into light,
She bloomed where waves refused the sand,
The patron saint of drowning night.

The palm below, a lone regret,
A dream that hadn’t learned to die,
It whispered tales the stars forget,
Of love that left and asked not why.

She listened, veiled in sea and mist,
Her fingers dripped with unborn rain,
And where her flowing garment kissed,
The tides grew still, as if in pain.

But still she stands, an ageless shade,
In tempests no one dares to chart.
A woman not of flesh, but made,
Of every broken sailor’s heart.

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She is the ghost that the deep keeps close. No name is needed, no temple built. She endures in every wave that reaches for the shore and falls back unanswered. Some say she mourns the past; others believe she simply is the ocean’s breath, its sorrow, its grace. And if you listen closely on quiet nights, you might hear her song rising with the tide.

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