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Bacchanalian Redhead
~Wednesday, March 02, 2005
The Beach
By Jon Owens
The Beach.
Endless crashing on the sand.
The water itself takes on an essence of vitality,
the indefinite violent breaking of the waves
is as real anywhere ocean meets land
as it is in our own lives.
Our own tireless crashing with the sands of life,
as it were, is very much like
our hardest of times...
The Beach.
Endless crashing on the sand.
The water itself takes on an essence of vitality,
the indefinite violent breaking of the waves
is as real anywhere ocean meets land
as it is in our own lives.
Our own tireless crashing with the sands of life,
as it were, is very much like
our hardest of times...
From far away, we come tumbling inevitably
toward our collision, and as we roll in, we
accelerate until finally we double over ourselves
and fall flat on our backs.
But slowly,
and as sure as the sun gives way to the moon,
we pull away from our troubles,
leaving behind us an echo of the event,
which slowly diminishes to nothing.
The only trace of our contact with the
immovable sands of life
are the granules we stir up and carry with us
for all of eternity.
content © r.m.b.