Shells lay washed up on the shore,
Little reminders of the marine creatures
They once contained.
Many of them have neat holes bored into them,
Pecked and hallowed by nimble birds.
(Not the seagulls that shadow the stars
And humble your height,
But small salty and feathery apparitions,
Butterflies of their own right.)
Shells are skeletons.
I used to think they were
Treasures to be buried in a deep hole
(With insides as iridescent as pearls,)
But they are sad corpses needing a grave.
Catacombs in sand castles,
A bit of ghost in the softness.
YOU ARE READING
Someone Like Me {Poetry}
PoetryWith power there come words. And with words there comes music. And with music there comes joy. And that's why I write poetry.
