Where is the poem,
the one I culdn't feel?
Escaped, like a flock of gulls
when all that's left is shells.
The mussels gone
or rotted
by heavy salty air;
exposed like a heart
to a fisherman
who never eats his catch
but hasn't the sense
to toss it in the water.
I am a shell,
with nothing succulent
to share.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
Where is the poem,
the one I culdn't feel?
Escaped, like a flock of gulls
when all that's left is shells.
The mussels gone
or rotted
by heavy salty air;
exposed like a heart
to a fisherman
who never eats his catch
but hasn't the sense
to toss it in the water.
I am a shell,
with nothing succulent
to share.
