Tim Becker

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Photo by Mila Young on Unsplash

The world moves around her like the wind.
She doesn’t have anything to say.
She moves like art.
She is lost in her way.
I’m stuck in her heart.
She takes it all in bracing for the hurt.
The pain always comes.
No, she wants it to go away.
But the hurt is never done.
The trees wallow to her.
They ask for her love.
She doesn’t want to share it.
She thinks its all gone.
When she is stuck searching, and I’m stuck in her heart,
the world isn’t very forgiving,
and leaves everything in dusk.
The rain is rolling in.
The storm is about to come.
When the wind stops blowing,
so does her heart.

Photo by Jasmin Rath on Unsplash

Luminous winds break off the beachhead, whispering the remains of the stories lost to the sea.

The night’s only light a resentful moon, glaring at the shore below.

The dock is the only thing awake to hear the tales of the wind.

The dock responds with a tired groan.

Ghosts of insects crawling through the air to the massacred lighthouse, their corpses feeding the grass below.

The skeleton of the lighthouse stands, exhausting its remaining foundation standing against the waves.

This place was once thriving, bustling, and alive, but now all that stands are reminders of the indifference of the sea.

Tim Becker

What am I supposed to write here? Normally a journalist. Everywhere to find me. https://linktr.ee/beckerthejourno

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