3085 KM

Atlantic waves

beckon me.

Calling out from the battered seashore.

Directing their dirge through shattered stones and glacial winds.

“Eastward, dear friend. Eastward,” they croon.

For in that eastward place, where

gleaming cerulean waters whisper to my heart, and

halcyonic rhythms echo in my mind,

I am free.

Jagged shorelines

kiss my soul with sweet sentimentality,

leaving me longing for

my return. To that place. My place.

Nevermore to abandon the

ocean breeze as it pulls me closer.

Pieces of my being left on that shoreline.

Quintessential essences of my being.

Rock. My rock.

Seawater sanctuary. My sanctuary.

Treasured island of mine.

Under skies of bliss and chaos, my

veritable heaven on earth.

Where the people are as genuine and hardy as the

xanthic marshes where the blueberries grow in the unforgiving climate.

Yielding the sweetest of fruits, and the sweetest of memories.

Zen. My Zen. My home.