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We are the seascape,
Voicing the waves that abound.
There is a storm only we can see,
Never ceasing, only pausing,
Still, as the sea not still, we await,
Hoping there is a day that breaks,
Doing what nothing else could do.
Under the circumstances given,
The sea continues on breathing,
Having washed ashore many times,
Only to return again and wait.
In the blank, cool colors of it,
The sun slowly rises with dim,
Embers of a distant light.
One wave crashes, another pushes,
Has the water ever sat quiet,
Or do the waves render it a sea,
Venerated by the storms it endures,
Through day and night and time?
Could it ever be different,
Or is this the lot we stand with,
Amongst one hundred other seas,
Who float on without question?
Give me night once more,
That I might see the moonlit haze-
Dismayed that it may not be found.
The waters dance below the cirri,
Leaving to become those same clouds,
But arising again at the rainís will,
Apprehended by the storms,
By the waves that rise and fall.
Why has it been ordained,
That this is the task of the sea?
Yet, it is and still the question repeats.
Maybe this is living: dreams.
Living without dreams is drought.
Whether the dreams say yes or no,
Very little emphasis is laid on that,
But rather, knowing there can be change.
You and I are the seascape,
Tiding because we have to,
Under the same moon in the end.

By southernblood

© 2017 southernblood (All rights reserved)


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