Silver and gold shine way up high
where only the anguished dare to cry.
As waves embrace the soft grey sand
they begin a waltz, and dance hand in hand.
The cooling ambers of the day
rest slowly against the tortured clay.
The air tightens with each breath
condemning daylight to its death.
Sounds become clearer now, illuminating thought
heartbeats shallower and deeper, but short
peaceful harmony in rhythm with life.
Gone now the pressure of the city, no toil, no strife.
by Anthony Smith
Read the story behind this poem
Vote For My Site!