Waters of the Wild

Born in the throes of Mother Nature,
from internal engines in the deep
at the mercy of the tides
and their authority,
ancient engines manufactured
by the genius of nature,
far from the eyes of the beholder
who gazes through rose colored glasses,
swooning at the artistic movement,
the rolling in from the deep,
the lines of pure white liquid velvet,
a seascape that breathes and flaunts itself,
a motion that stays with
the eyes of the heart
like musical strokes of the baton
in the hand of the orchestral conductor,
the kissing of the rocks,
the artistic movement of the splashing
like liquid angels dancing in the sun,
the tears caressing the sand,
gathering up the pebbles and
taking them back out to sea again,
a loving duty performed by
Mother Nature in her tranquil mood,
the feel of her strength up close,
to see a mountain of water looming,
arsenals hidden in its fury,
the straying from the easy,
the poetic rhythm of motion,
of ferocity in its christening,
of confusion with no place to settle in,
of the wild going out into the wild,
of mass destruction from the pounding,
tossing the ships like rag dolls,
tons of steel floating in the wind,
the devil’s spume passing though
evil mouths and razor like fangs,
Mother Nature in her brutal attacks,
her passion and the
running of her passion.

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