Let them in.
All the faces.
All the voices.
All the echoes.
Hear the giggling
gurgling gabble of the high tide,
mixing them all into a single nothing.
Behold the beauty
of a thing come sacred:
the exaltation of the normal,
the cessation of all striving,
the reverence for the dead.
Feel the thumping tucked ‘neath your flesh.
Hear its pulsings. Sense the constant, continual
whispering “You are not lost. You are not lost.”
No. You are not. And -ever so gently-
“The cost of following Me, child, is quite high.”
Copyright © 2020 by Charles B. Young. All rights reserved.