|Agonia.Net | Policy | Mission||Contact | Participate|
|Article Communities Contest Essay Multimedia Personals Poetry Press Prose _QUOTE Screenplay Special|
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
2012-02-07 | | Submited by Constantin Delca
It is pleasant to lie on the rocky shore in the sun
exposed and open. Itâ€™s all there--the sound of
wind, the sound of waves--the meaningless
journal of a lifetime. Nothing is clear, not even
the obvious. One loses interest and falls asleep
within the waterâ€™s easy reach.
This driftwood on the beach, dry and bleached
white, white as a bone you might say, or white
as snow. If an artist (wearing a sweatshirt, blue
jeans and tennis shoes without socks) came
walking along, he might, seeing the possibilities,
pick up this piece of driftwood and take it home.
Not me. I fling it back in the water.
|Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests.|