“The sea never sleeps, and the wakefulness of the sea
brings comfort to a sleepless soul”
— Khalil Gibran
The sea casts its dead to the shore —
never sleeping, sifting its living
and dead like a great colander god.
Answering to no religions, only creating
its own, self-feeding with arteries etched
in the sand. Each night a possible eve
of evolution alive with genesis swells.
Yet in times of temperate longing,
serves shells on sparkling platters
laid gently at her feet, then swallows
the day, erasing all signs of my intrusion
cleansing footsteps with sea foam
whisked of primordial soup.
My sleepless soul nothing more than
a voyeur to the sea’s rage of ransoms —
offerings tossed towards the cliffs
in exchange for its freedom.
