I stand where the sea-foam blows back along the edges, where the ravenous prey on those who dare peak above the water’s safety. God has washed his instruments here and painted the sky with water. Perhaps this is what beauty is after all; life it seems is no flawless art, gilded and framed in some gallery, but this ébauche of sublime movement—this study of loneliness—that we discarded onto a heap we call time.
Written for Three Line Tales, Week 148.
Image credit: Lalo via Unsplash.