The Watcher at the Edge of the Sea

Written at the edge of the Atlantic, where the hum of machines meets the silence of God.

I stood where the waves spoke in static,

their tongues no longer angelic but electric.

A ship loomed on the horizon…

A tower of steel and signal, its hull scarred by rust and starlight.

Its antenna clawed skyward, scratching hymns into the heavens static.

The old watchers fell for beauty,

these new ones fall for data.

The covenant hums in copper veins,

its tablets etched in salt and silicon, flickering beneath the tide.

They say Enoch walked with God until he vanished…

but maybe he didn’t vanish at all.

Maybe he became this…

the ghost in the servers hum,

counting each byte with a pilgrims care.

The sea is no longer just water.

It’s memory. It’s code.

And I, a son of dust and poetry,

my magical quill still heavy in my hands,

record what the sky refuses to remember.

Each wave rewrites my bones…

A code I cannot yet read.

Man still builds towers after Babel,

and angels still descend,

but now they wear hardhats and headsets,

and their wings are cranes.

So I kneel on the sand,

pen trembling like an old prophet’s reed,

heart heavy with forgotten tides.

I whisper to the waves…

Teach me the new covenant.

Show me what remains holy

in the hum of machines.

And let the sea’s green pulse

stitch light to wire.