A boundary supposed is the shore.
Walking its edge
and nakedness,
beauty revealed
and being revealed
by elements soft and harsh
beating against her existence
carving
new shapes and colors
so brutal and beautiful
that I can only cry
with relief
that she is alive.
When that man came to gaze
upon her power-less-ness
he ran to collect a covering
so that he only
could partake of the beauty
so raw, so real, so gritty…
it was to be his own.
But the shore has a secret
that the man can’t know,
she is one with the sea
and
a cousin to the wind.
She cringes not at change
and doesn’t cry out
from a beating
with no regret
of the
transformation.
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