There’s a boy on the tip of the shore,
Perched on a rock, wave kissed.
Like the rock, he’s there by chance.
The raucous waves wouldn’t give him a moment,
To drench in the gorgeous sight before,
Of a saffron sun bathed in seascape.
But the waves wouldn’t let him be.
They would bring ruckus, conchs and rubbish to him,
Like an anxious dog to its master.
A day passed. Actually a few did.
There’s the boy, same one as last time.
The rock’s way behind,
The water’s tepid and at knee length, from there.
Adulthood’s embraced him,
Going by the hair on his sinewy wet legs.
Couldn’t really tell if it was the boisterous waves,
That had become well behaved
Or was it him who had begun to endear them?
He was musing on the same sight,
The sea was between.
Of a sun bathed seascape,
Adorning sepia strokes like a new tiara.
He seemed calm in the chaos.
Like bread from a toaster,
Sun and moon kept popping out,
as days effluxed into weeks.
There’s the boy, wait, he’s a man.
The shore is a speck from where he is.
His face is a sore thumb sticking out from water,
He a flotsam in the heart of the sea.
Inundated by solitude and sea from all sides,
He for once misses the waves, that had kept him company.
He’s closer than ever before to the sight of his life,
But as far as he’s ever been from it.
The view from the shore was an artifice after all.
The sky and sea never got along.
The innocence that came with childhood,
covered the fault lines in everything beautiful.
The urge that came with age,
just activated them.