Thursday, December 10, 2015

prose poem 23 | onrush perpetual

The Pacific is bombastic, but more pleasant than that sounds. She writhes not angry, though she thrashes into ecru-taupe foam – against slate brown. She persists, simply inevitable. She doesn’t roar, but rather thrives as an onrush perpetual.

Waves wring wind into furor.

Salt and grains of sand flung tirelessly against stone. Each sculpts, unsuspecting. Small furrows in aggregate build beauty from chaotic folds.

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