Rolling crests froth into a white soup

as waves crash

On the shore a subtle thunder and cool mist

belie the frenzy of the water.

The hot summer sun illuminates

a beachscape rife with pleasure

and the dank briny scent of wet seaweed.

Were it not for the clockwork thunder of the waves

and the silence in between

my soul may rest,

but a resting soul cannot be hear.

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