Death is beauty,
               as the rose atop of death
feeds on the nourishment of
                                   an empty shell.


Even though its petals decay,
                              its reaches higher

than the tomb
                      to bring life crimson to the surface.

We are but cadavers of memory,
                   cleansing the shore line


of word..

But sometimes we find
                that this shell will inexplicitly wash up again


more polished than before.

he was weak, and pathetic
and earnest, and kind
but he was that bleeding, aching, pain in my side
so i took both my hands and choked him to death,
forgetting the shell is as weak as the man

there is a dark room
the curtains are pulled
a little light penetrates
behind the locked door
I rarely go there
except in secret moments
when I know it's safe
and my hardened shell
can offer protection
I have to be strong
for the ones who rely on me
but like a weeping wound
my curiosity is drawn
visits get fewer and fewer
at some point I must stop
putting my childish anger
to rest

hermit crab
spying an empty shell
moving up in the world