Friday, May 4, 2012

{ My recluse }


The shell I hail from,
Is its own recluse,
The sand that cocoons,
Is the sea’s confidant.

As I walk over the wet;
Uncanny sand,
My nails hide the grainy stories,
I look down and let it go,
For the sand needs its cocoon.

I dig inside,
Let my feet sink in,
I get scared of the impulsive unevenness,
And I have fingers to cling onto,
My recluse.

I turn around and do it over and over again,
To tell the sea; I can withstand its robust spread,
I cling onto the finger yet again,
For they are by me.

Once the fingers hesitated,
Because they were drowned themselves,
In the firm wet sand beneath,
No recluse, no confidant.

This time the fingers searched for a confidant,
To feel the unevenness,
Of the uncanny sand,
My nails hide the grainy stories,
I looked down and let it go,
For the sand needs its cocoon.

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