. Canto I: The Movement .
Sing, O depths, of the sundered and stitched—
of lovers who fled the lattice of men.
They bore no dowry but discord and blaze,
cast off from the courts of the land-born kin.
She rose from a brine-locked temple,
crowned in eelbones and saltglass,
her voice a harpoon through silence.
He came from a pyre of failed gods,
drunk on the ash of forgotten cities,
carrying a heart wrapped in nettle and wire.
They met in the undertow—
not with grace, but with rupture.
He called her flame in the throat of the sea,
she named him the reef that bleeds stars.
They kissed in the eye of a cyclone,
fed each other names never spoken twice,
and shackled themselves in sinew and storm.
Let it be known: they did not set sail.
They were flung—howling—from the world’s wound.
. Canto II: The Recognition .
Seven moons passed through their lungs
before they saw.
Not eyes—not bodies—
but the myths coiled inside each other’s ribs.
She bore a temple in her stomach
where drowned saints wept for the living.
He kept a cemetery behind his tongue
for all the truths he’d butchered with silence.
They laid bare their reliquaries,
cracked open their chests
like oysters of ruin—
and still, they reached.
No mercy. No disguise.
Only pulse and plague.
She screamed her mother’s curses into his jaw.
He fed her the names of storms he never wept for.
Still—
they danced.
Still—
they sank.
Not from weight,
but from knowing.
And the sea, jealous of such raw mirror,
split its throat open,
so even Poseidon would forget peace.
. Canto III: The Resolution .
They did not break.
They were not mended.
They blurred,
like blood in tide,
like prayer in fog.
The sea claimed their names,
then forgot them—
but the bones remembered.
Now coral grows from their vows.
Now whales dream their sighs.
She became the thrum beneath shipwrecks,
the voice in a sailor’s last breath.
He became the itch in the compass,
the pull toward madness at dusk.
If you listen—
truly listen—
you may still hear it:
a hymn of wire, salt, and marrow,
carried on a wave older than time.
Not warning.
Not lament.
But tribute.
To the wire-bound lovers—
to the myth that dared to bleed
and called it sacred.
A salt-etched epic in the tongues of leviathans
⚔ ACT I: THE MOVEMENT
("Of Departure, of Fire, of Teeth")
This is the voyage—the hunger, the pact, the leap into chaos. The lovers are not yet divine, not yet doomed—but becoming. They tear from their origins, riding the edge of creation, mouths full of storm and yearning.
🜂 ACT II: THE RECOGNITION
("Of Mirror, of Maw, of Memory")
Here is the gnosis. The mirror. The ache of reflection. The sea begins to whisper, not just with gods, but with ghosts. They see each other fully—and cannot look away. Love becomes blade, becomes psalm, becomes revelation.
☠ ACT III: THE RESOLUTION
("Of Ash, of Drift, of Song")
Not death. Not salvation. Something more cursed and blessed. They do not win. They do not fail. They become—the myth, the wreck, the hymn in the kelp. This is love as legend, not because it endured, but because it transformed.
Bonus Round::
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5074338/ballad-of-the-wire-bound-lovers/https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5074340/silk-ash/