My Poem Thingy

Thoughts like waves crash upon the shores of my mind.
Tides of fear and joy.
Fearful dark driftwood blocks the view of white sand.
Joyful light shines on the rocky shore path.
A ship with no anchor in a storm with no wind.
"Hold steady, be brave, clear sailing ahead!
Or perhaps a mirage, a place for the dead?"
Who steers this ship, who sits at the helm?
He stills the storm.
He plots the path.
He deals no deception.
He gives the gift.

-Ryan