Atlantic Shores


Wind, like a torrent, rips harshly through the crashing waves

Birthed unknowing from sources unknown

Thrust the soft clouds

Pound the rocky shores

Twist the weary trees

Placed as if by accident, squalling into circumstance it lashes out

Angry not at what, but why

The deepest frustration is existence without purpose

Such fury, like life, cannot last forever

White, foaming crests, rolling heavy and spent into the shore

Thundering. Powerful packets of rage. Each a fading sign of life before death.

The hotness cools, the rage dies, the fighting calms. Struggle gives way to stillness.

Land accepts the resignation of the wisened, dying gust

Having spent its holy anger, it flits almost peaceful

Grasses sway in green and yellow waves undulating over the seaside meadow

Ripples of somnolence. Again unknowing.

And so breath breathed gasps mightily into existence

Unfettered, it fights and struggles raging without purpose

Spending itself to build waves that will fall on unaffected shores

But who can shackle even the weakest breeze? When has a gust lent itself to a prison?

Invincible liberty. Every breath ends in a meadow without a trace.

Unknowing, we die.

But freely, we live.


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