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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Ceramic Artist- Ryszard Stryjec
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XXXXXXXSAND IN THE SHELL
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It's a speck of sand that's crept into my shell,
that I'm trying to spit out
to cough up.
What places this dust in me?
Am I to be torn,
to be hurt by a floating dot?
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I heard a rumor that this is the launch
of a life inside
that pulls and scratches and embeds
till here it is,
this phantom from my previous days,
before redemption or good deeds could save me.
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Eat me up, let's see who will survive this wound
where a tiny pearl yet to swell
whispers I am the return,
just as you are the carrier.
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This life in a bubble,
shielded from the plague,
later believes it's a feather,
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floats away
from bonds
that tie a knot,
that stops the blood.
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