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Things make sense here,
Tired old rocks; battered, bruised and beaten
by the waves as they break.
Less than their former selves, yet more beautiful.
Shining, in the warm coastal sun.

Sand flows between my toes,
golden, glistening specks refined by the years.
My footprint barely known,
cut short by the tidal, cleansing sea. I’m gone.
It’s as though I wasn’t here.

The wind brushes across my face,
refreshing a complexion worn tired by city life.
I can hear you, in the ocean –
quietly whispering; yet a deep, rumbling whisper.
“I know, I’m coming, I’m here.”

The sun beats down on my back,
Respite from this chilled spring breeze; a reminder.
You know me. Here I am –
I am present now; I’m listening; in anticipation.
“Perhaps I can find you.”

It’s becoming clearer now.
Remnants of rocks; washed clean, and refined.
Something to aspire to;
Cared for and shaped by this kind ocean’s waves.
Things make sense here.

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