A storm of voices breaks
with iron chill
Upon moss-serene stones of the cliffside.

Ripping out the humble grasses that once flashed in the wind’s cleansing breath.
Grasping sand-treasures that are so precious to a child,
Artifacts of beauty…
And flinging them through a wall of spray, of noise…
To strange and clouded waters unpenetrated by rapture’s sun.
Shouting, roaring, wounding, wrenching.

Noise pounds out its varnished fury
Pounds out the silence.
The violent mist and echos climb, full of wrath,
Up weathered cliffside and cliffside
and cliffside.
Until they reach the ears of one who kneels

On sandpaper stones, to peer below.
An eager man, with strength untapped
Flowing from ardent lips.
The echos of confusion rile his hair.
Mutterings of greater pain draw down his brow.
But indigo sky infuses his veins.

The graceful, forceful sunbeam power of Truth among lies.
The strength of loveliness among accepted fears.
He whispers.
And the rasping gray echos fade.
He speaks.
And silence pours down the cliffside and cliffside
and cliffside.
Weighing down wordless clamour, pressing, possessing, caressing.
Until the sand is clear again, for little feet to laugh in.
And yellow waves of grass will grow again, like maidens’ hair.

Copyright © GraceElizabeth


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