stirring

The ocean comes with its gentle greeting.

Different thoughts come to mind as one views the setting horizon.

The ocean waves, once again, come with their gentle greeting.

Never lying.

Not capable of doing such.

The viewer comes to grips with the propensity of time.

Much like the ocean openly embraced the space it occupies.

A space which it consumes.

Things only change as much as time allows.

but in that regard, time is always passing. Dribbling on.

Each moment escaping like a breathe from a dying soldier.

"Give this note to my son," is his final will.

And his comrade, unaware of his impending fate, promises to do so.

No quicker does he stand to reassume his position does he catch lead.

Grasping onto a note which would never find its owner.

Misplaced words that never found their home have a way of being more painful than words that were never spoken.