How powerful a storm must be

To make the smallest wave. 

To transform viscosity and make 

White Caps jetty upon endless aquamarine. 

How quietly the wind must whip

In the center of the Atlantic, 

Hidden away from 

Mankinds most wicked compulisions. 

How willing the water moves, 

Begging to satisfy 

the tempest’s every urge. 

How little we appreciate 

The strength of our sky, 

As we rot in the sun, 

And lay gingerly on ancient dust. 

Watch a little closer,

As you feel sand 

Fall from your hands.

Picture the pain each piece must have felt,

As icy water cut their skin. 

The howling winds they must have heard, 

The screeching beauty of a world submerged.