Saturday, November 8, 2008

The Shell

Living grows round us, like a skin,
To shut away the outer desolation,
For if we clearly mark the furthest deep,
We should be dead long years before the grave,
But turning around within the homely shell,
Of worry, discontent and narrow joy,
We grow and flourish, and rarely see,
the outside dark that would confound our eyes.
Some break the shell,
I think that there are those who push
their fingers through the brittle walls,
And make a hole, and through this cruel slit,
Stare out upon the cinders of the world with naked eyes,
They look both out and in, knowing themselves,
and too much else beside.



Molly Drake

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