Relentless Rhythm
The horizon, a bruised purple this morning,
but the sound, always the sound.
A constant, liquid sigh,
a breath drawn in across continents,
expelled onto this shore, again, and again.
Relentless.
Not angry, not joyous, just…is.
A pulse of the planet, perhaps.
Or the turning of some cosmic dial,
each surge a tick marking time
in a language we only feel
in the tremor of sand beneath our feet.
Each wave a memory,
pulled from the deep,
unfurling its story in foam and spray,
then receding, taking secrets back.
What does it remember?
The rasp of ancient keels?
The silent descent of creatures unseen?
The weight of fallen stars?
And what does it promise?
This endless repetition,
this hypnotic ebb and flow.
Is it comfort? A lullaby to the shore?
Or a stark reminder of impermanence,
each crest a fleeting moment
before the inevitable surrender?
Relentless.
It wears down mountains, grain by grain,
shapes coastlines with indifferent power.
What chance do our small certainties have
against this liquid eternity?
Yet, we stand here, listening,
drawn to the rhythm,
finding solace, perhaps, in its very constancy.
A reminder that even in chaos,
there is a pulse, a breath,
a relentless, unwavering beat.
©bfa051225
Copyright ©
Bernard F. Asuncion
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