Shore

                                                            Shore

         I sit hear before this great, vast blue plane of glass. 
         Calm and yet moving so subtly. 
         Climbing itself to the shore, teasing the still wet weeds that lay before it,
         then reproaching sneakily, leaving them behind. 
         To dry.

         I sit on this great mound of broken things.
         Trillions of tiny specs, once great boulders,
         Cut down from glory, broken and broken again,
         Ripped apart by the still floor.
         I pick a handful up,
         They fall out unwillingly,
         Unnoticed.
         There are so many of them; they have become nothing.
         In numbers they are an entity;
         Individually, they cease to exist.
         Looking out upon this great blue horizon,
         I am a grain of sand.
         I do not exist to it, too small to be seen.
         This great, big, unfeeling, ever destroying monster.
         It does not know me, yet is all that I see.

         A storm cloud rises overhead.
         The sky turns from bright to ominous.
         Thunder sounds, dark and deep.
         Rain will soon fall.
         Shadow is approaching, and will soon cloak the entire shore.
         But the great black cloud serves no match for the great blue sea.
         I look to my south,
         The sea is perfect blue in the sky,
         Unknowing of the peril that will soon face its northern counterpart.
         Unknowing it will be when that peril is assumed.

         In the midst I sit, over the shore, under the cloud.
         Above me, Ahead of me:  All is so huge.
         Beneath me:  All is so small.
         Why am I so amazed by the great and greatly minute?
         Why do I come to this place?
         Why do I gaze in awe, inspired by both blue horizons?
         To be part of something massive,
         I think not.
         It is quite the opposite, merely a necessity to
         See the sea, smell the tide, feel the sand.
         I am not part of it; it has become a part of me.
         So many colors, Powerful greens, Deep purple flowers,
         The assortment of natural hues along the coastline.
         How could one have created so many?
         Sounds as, numerous gulls screech,
         The soft gentle pace of the sea.
         Who is to decide these?
         The cold ocean breeze rubbing against my bare arms,
         The warm sun beating down on my neck,
         The sand, so soft, and yet so coarse.
         How is one to decipher these?
         Such a vastness of sensation.
         Of significant, distinct sensation.
         Is that not in itself a work of art?
         
         I own the grand sensations, I have created them.
         Merely a man, but I have created these immense pictures in view.
         Smiling in delight, I gasp at the greatness of my own creation.
         My images, my sensations, and the things my world is comprised of.
         It is here where I can marvel at them.
         I, a mere grain of sand, creating so much,
         Creating an entire representation of the world,
         Of this grand horizon.
         A grain of sand, and an ocean has manifested out of it.
         It pities the boulder it once was.

         The storm cloud has grown to deeper colors.
         Darker colors.
         The grain of sand anticipates the first drop.
         And the last.  Waiting,
         To see what it is capable of.