A Shark's Grip

This morning, I opened my salt-stained curtains to a sea of black in the sky.

Rubbing the sleep from my startled eyes with scaly hands,

I had half a mind to close the rotting rags

and return to bed, where I could attempt to sleep out the storm.

But something compelled me to keep on swimming against the tide,

despite the constant barrage of sharp-peaked waves

 that were seeping through my open window,

which could slice me cleanly in half if the ice-cold air didn't shatter me first.

So with a sigh, I stepped outside into the harsh surroundings

which were beginning to engulf my chest and flood my lungs

which tightened with each breath that I took

as if the sea's fist was clamping at me like a vice.

I saw a struggling shark trapped within a maze of rocks

darting backwards and forwards into the jagged walls

but when I reached out my hand to lead her to safety

she snapped at me with her savage jaw.

Foolhardily, I was sure that I could save her

and that her selfish past could be redeemed

so my trembling hand reached through the crevice

into the terrifying blind unknown,

and at that moment I felt something clasp around my wrist

gripping on and tugging relentlessly

but when I opened my screwed up eyes I saw that it was her hand and not her teeth;

the storm has passed and it's clear blue as far as I can see.