When the sea’s churn is endless,
And all comfort’s denied,
Let me live on this tongue,
And by its words die.

“I was a vessel from tempest.
I was your chance to transform.
Yet in the inky swells recess,
You still shied from a storm.”

No rough edge made smooth,
No dull thing made to shine.
Every ridge and harsh groove,
I own to be mine.

And to the mouth of the shell,
From whence I was spit,
I’ll parry this truth:
Some pearls aren’t worth ****.