I am thinking
about going
to the shore.
The wind blowing
against my
nose and mouth.
The steady shush,
overlapping—
dash, dash, dash.
Tiny sand dunes
collapsing
under my steps.
Gulls that glide
and flap,
then glide again—
and vanish inside
that swirling shell,
replaced upon my desk.
Poem created without AI. Image made with Midjourney.
© Subcreation.design 2024. All rights reserved.
