Sundays on the Breaker’s Edge

On Sundays I walk where the land meets the foam,

a quiet place that feels like something earned.

The lighthouse hums its old, unbroken tune,

a steady pulse against a world that turns

too fast for hearts that need a gentler room.

I think of shipwrecks buried in the deep,

their ribs still holding stories of the storm.

Not every wreck is ruin, some are rest,

a place where battered truths can take new form

and find the strength they lost in troubled sleep.

The lighthouse keeps a patient eye on all,

on drifting souls who never meant to stray.

It doesnt judge the ones who lost their course.

It only offers light along the way

and hopes the wanderer sees its quiet call.

Reflection comes like tide against the shore,

soft at first, then stronger as it speaks.

It asks me what I choose to steer by now,

what truths I trust to hold me through the weeks,

what inner compass I wont ignore.

And so each Sunday under open sky,

I stand between the calm and wild sea spray.

This world may crack its hulls on hidden stone,

yet still we rise and move toward brighter day,

for truth is light that never passes by.