Seaside Moors he listens to wind secrets

i wanted to make a thread(post?) where i tried my hand at poetic prose. if it doesn't make sense, uh, i'm very new at this and trying my best.

dawn waxing, night waning; as celestial churn of night to morn mimics lunar aeons —
sepulchral, stalwart, sentinel the tundrian roots himself to pliable, cool sands underfoot. awash in resilient moonbeams of sugar spun; polar glower afixed upon churning sea. each rise and fall of frothy currents maroons unfortunate sealife upon damp sands, in shallow pools. candycolored fish, tangles of seaweed; fragments of pastel shells and bonewhite driftwood
callous; cruel —
expelling those that need her most. the sea and he are alike; severed from the same cut of titan.
no more, no more —

n o
m o r e

the unseelie king spurns the sea’s whispers of likeness; of soul share. shoulders ripe with strong sinew steel against fierce, salty breeze as seabrine fingers clutch at darkhairs of his nape. we are not the same… fierce words borne of burning and smokesteeped whiskey drown; protests of the sea in a frothing wave drags each syllable beneath eager eddies.
soft sand surrenders to nomad’s might; releasing; as he steps upon the hard and stable earth the moor eagerly provides.

In dawn, Rusalka looked like a painting, the moor grass backlit by the rising sun, curved and soft and blazing like peach fuzz on a round cheek.

Ground is slippery with mist. His toes grip the dirt but there is always the sense that one misplaced foot-pound of pressure will send him reeling to the ground. His stomach and jaw tighten. He had slept restlessly and woken up with his bruxism back in full force. He couldn't recall his dream. It hurt to open his mouth. The doctor had told him a while ago to relax and Miranda still regrets not biting him then and there. Yeah, I'll try to relax alright.

His objective this dripping autumn morning is the dark man standing on the seam between the beach and the moor. Some General McArthurian figure, broad-shouldered and eyes narrowed in an impassive squint. Clearly built for the tundra -- he feels an instant kinship with the stranger (you can take a wolf away from the mountains, but not the mountains from the wolf).

Hello, he calls out through a smile. Something to do, so early in the morning?

hale tundrian; a lost sailor trying so very hard not to succumb to the crooning sirensong beneath the waves. the ropes gyving him to the mast fraying, chord by chord as he internally struggles. effortless it would be to give into his mercurial nature; to allow himself to take what he wants. to secure uncertain future and steer the drifting man’o’war of his wartorn heart to harbor —

rife with seasqualls, no doubt, but nothing he cannot weather.

he has sailed upon worst seas.

masculine tenor breaks thru the roiling crash of thoughts like seashore waves; commanding the hale tundrian’s attention. the nomad offers it, gelid gaze zeroing in upon the other male. hello, echoes back, drifting into the tangy seaair. learning the lay of the moors. tundrian supplies.

Ah, he responds with the same subdued inflection. You're new here too, I'm guessing.

There's a certain tough jerky quality that all the long-time Rusalkans he'd met so far had. This man, while most definitely not soft, did not. 

He appraises him again -- dense with muscle, denser with fur ... there's a vision of the Cosa Nostra sticking some poor soul into cement shoes and watching as he plummets through the air and then through the water. Cement shoes, it burrows into his mind and sticks there. Something about both his physical and vocal reticence reminds Miranda of fullerene. 

I'm Miranda, he says warmly. It feels safe to know that he isn't the only new wolf cast onto the acidic moorland soil.