A tangle of ropes lies on the beach,
wrapped around a stone, hopelessly intertwined,
an anchor with the power to nothing
but weigh down whatever it is tied to
and drag it to the depths and hold it there.
In the time it would take to unravel its knots
you would be salvage, a corpse perhaps,
drowned by the brightly colored vines,
and so some wise soul cut themselves free
and rose to the surface,
while the ropes became captive of the tides.
About this poem.
Sometimes starting over has its up sides.
Or it could be about ropes.