Hook Rusted iron anchors deep, Where restless, salted currents weep. Drowned wood yields beneath the swell, To whisper where the waters fell. A brooding hymn of grit and foam, The grimy tide that calls you home. Verse 1 Barnacle-black and barn-door slow, I feel that undertow I used to know. Silt in the lungs, a sermon in the sludge, Every ripple’s a reminder I never quite budged. Keel-cracked promises, compass gone green, North is just the next thing I shouldn’t have seen. Chain-link horizon, horizon on chain, Same old pull with a different name. Foam-fingered preacher, pulpit of wreck, Lays hands on my ankles, whispers “come back.” I spit the brine, it tastes like last year, Like every “I’m done” that disappeared. Hook Rusted iron anchors deep, Where restless, salted currents weep. Drowned wood yields beneath the swell, To whisper where the waters fell. A brooding hymn of grit and foam, The grimy tide that calls you home. Verse 2 Low-tide confession, high-tide lie, The current don’t care if you learned how to dry. It keeps the receipts: the rust, the rot, The nights you swore this wasn’t your lot. Hull-split honesty, cargo of ghosts, Everybody you left still haunting the coast. You can bleach the deck and paint it new, The water still knows the shape of you. Grime don’t rinse. It just waits in the grain. One slip, one swell, and you’re singing again. Hook Rusted iron anchors deep, Where restless, salted currents weep. Drowned wood yields beneath the swell, To whisper where the waters fell. A brooding hymn of grit and foam, The grimy tide that calls you home. Bridge It doesn’t shout. It just arrives. Same hymn. Same tide. Same home that never quite lets you inside. Verse 3 I packed the dry land, I burned the map, Still hear that hymn through the bathroom tap. Every clean morning starts with a leak, Salt in the soap, rust on the cheek. I tell the current I don’t live there no more, It laughs in the pipes and knocks on the door. Home ain’t a harbor. Home is the pull. The part of you that never learned how to hull. So I stand on the shore with my pockets full of stones, Singing the hymn so I don’t sink alone. Final Hook Rusted iron anchors deep, Where restless, salted currents weep. Drowned wood yields beneath the swell, To whisper where the waters fell. A brooding hymn of grit and foam, The grimy tide that calls you home. The grimy tide that calls you home. The grimy tide that calls you… home.
