There is an emptiness, a sort of ache,
That is a truth like few we ever know:
For pain’s as real as images are fake,
And low tides come as sure as high tides go.
The bottom is a place, we all find out,
Where we must dwell a time, when it’s our day,
And though we’d all forego it, without doubt,
It is a thing that can’t be kept away.
The climb is rocky, landscape very bleak,
And usually, we get there all alone,
But there’s some comfort knowing, strong or weak,
We all walk there, for few have ever flown.
The low tide times that scrape or even bruise,
That one day love might touch, and maybe — soothe.