Each knot tied
wrinkles and ages the face
of a rope worn smooth
from passing through the hands of you and I.

Each slipknot I pull through
weakens the twists in your story,
because these knots are little more than child’s play,
and children have no place among this rigging.

What is frayed and tangled,
this salty air will only weaken in due time.
And when the strings unravel,
face the shame for knots you can’t untie.

Though the salt air blew upon my rope as well,
no harm can come from knots that I’ve untied.
Will you have the strength to face yourself,
when all that you have left is knotted ropes?