The Quiet

There is a terrible crashing by the shoreline; the waves draw and drown and drag pieces of herself

lying helplessly, haphazardly, unaware of the consequences of existing near the chaos.

She stands alone, watching in silent wonder, in a quiet kind of fear, waiting to be

drawn, drowned, and dragged down into the maelstrom of helpless things.

She stands alone, toes caught in cement sand, grasping, grabbing, refusing to relinquish control.

She stands alone, the spitting spray of the ocean waves stinging and sticking to her face.

She stands alone, wind screaming and screeching her weakness into the echo of her mind.

Everything is howling, crashing, tired of the noise but unable to stop it.

She stands alone in the caress of a gentle wave.

There is a terrible quiet by the shoreline; it descends suddenly, surprisingly.

The waves are lapping at her toes, freeing them from their prison,

from the tight grasping and grabbing that held her

down to be drawn, drowned, and dragged.

There is a quiet by the shoreline.

She moves into the water,

smiling now, no fear.

She stands alone,

free, in the

quiet.