Perched on top a sandcastle,
A ghost who rules the night.
In armour pale as soft moonshine,
And brandished sword of might.
From his high keep, he clambers down —
The shore his dark domain.
He stalks the tide’s retreating edge,
For spoils soon to be slain.
The scent of brine and drifting ****
Rides on the midnight air;
Now darting forth to strike his prey,
Swift-footed, keen, aware.
With sharpened blade, he rends the flesh —
His kingdom’s tribute claimed.
And casts aside the rest to rot,
Now that his hunger’s tamed.
Then strikes his armour with his sword —
It rings along the shore,
A haunting drum designed to fright
Subjects still seeking war.
Assured now that his realm is safe,
Sword sheathed with grim command,
He scuttles back to his fortress,
Across the warming sand.
The eastern sky grows light with fire;
The moon begins to fade.
The surf now hums a softer hymn,
The stars slip into shade.
He yields his crown to morning’s glow,
And burrows in his keep,
Where muffled tides and cooling walls
Enfold their king in sleep.
