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.
Do you know the feeling? Listen to Empty Shell, poem by Amy Hilton 4 #np on #SoundCloud https://soundcloud.com/amy-hilton-4/empty-shell-poem