A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


We are the curling, ecstatic tip,
The effervescent foam,
Shimmering and sparkling,
Rolling home to a distant shore,
Yet I hear barely a whisper,
What marks this passing?
Lost, to the curious way
The voice of power we tell,
By a final crash,
A dying roar,
Not in the silent,
Breathing swell.
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