It Is Not That Trite
Sand gets grayer, melting sun
Merges into setting phase
Waves slow down their run
To the quieter pace
Gentler blows the ocean breeze
Cirrus clouds decay
Shines a metaphor of peace
In the air today
Looks like postcard type of view
But it’s not that trite
On the premise of the few
Who can breathe the light.
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