debris from the tides.
Message in a bottle,
let the truth reverberate.
This calcified exterior,
its beauty to extol, is none but
an empty shell, devoid of depth to dig.
Oh, the seashell. Is it as rich in metaphor for you as it is for me? Or is it simply doomed to sit atop a stack of boring papers, empty and alone, regardless of its graceful lines?
This is both a magpie tale and a one shot wednesday piece. The form I use is called an Etheree which consists of ten lines, each line gradually gaining a syllable from 1 to 10 (or gradually losing a syllable from 10-1 if reversed). Words and meaning are open to interpretation, as usual.