Grace

The roll of the waves is like some sweet melody filtered by the rain and pebbles,
I listen,
I pause,
I watch them roll in unison. 
It moves like a pulsing meadow,
all at once then one by one,
tainted by the drag of the moon
and by the soft call of the icy wind -
like it's drawn to its graceful tug. 

The rhythmic beating of its thrumming heart haunts me when I sway,
the reverberation like a ballad in inside my head,
it never ends.
Its monotonous tone continuous forever -
like space but its tune is far sweeter,
far more illustrious than the echoing white noise.

I halt,
I sit still,
I wait for the inevitable,
for the pitch of a voice from behind me,
the baritone deeper than most -
like a chorus of evil has gathered around my shoulders.

The waves roll on in its soporific way,
cleansing my soul one scar at a time.
I'm alive. 
We're alive. 

But

I'm not sure I want to be alive anymore.