The broken windowpanes,
And cracks in the red brick walls,
A delapidated cottage,
Crumbling in the ocean mist.
As the high tide crashes
Into the rugged cliffs,
I hear the sound of the surf
And contemplate: Is there
solace from the mess?
A pure rejuvenation
From life's soiled tests,
The conscious rendering
Of a longed for restoration.
I pull my blanket closer
As the cold wind nips my neck,
And hear the inssesant chatter,
Of the ever calling seagulls.
"Be still my soul," I whisper.
As I take in a breath, hold it,
Then let it out slowly.
Restoration is possible I think,
If I let it.
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