Storms

Out of the sea; the wreckage.

And did this vessel ever look so

Beautiful as now,

With the beach strewn through it?

Out of the wreckage, the treasure.

Did anything ever hurt as much as this to behold?

Out of the treasures, our secrets.

Or have we know (and buried) them all along?

Out of the secrets, the light.

By which to guide us home.

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About hereisthemoment

I write. Sometimes I don't.

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