The ocean is a melancholy place.
Under the crash of the waves, something wails,
and the sound only I can hear prevails
and lingers, floating in the ocean's lace.
Bare feet step onto quivering shells and stones
next to dull sea glass. The wind whips the sands
in my face, as the wail swells and expands
while the ground wears blue shells strewn like old bones.
Seagulls call out in unwritten language;
the waves swell and crawl back into themselves,
fighting each other in retreat and offense.
I look past the horizon to the edge
of all life, where unbidden darkness dwells
revealing light and all of its pretense.