Poem #17: Shell

For miles

the sound sands

stretch along the beach,

pure and white,

united as a single pathway.

This road

is endless,

made of infinite

grains of sand,

each segment

of a shell,

each a fraction

of a former home

of some slimy, wet

creature that

needed protection.

The beach in its

beauty

is sadness,

a million crushed memories,

a graveyard

strewn

with billions of bones.

Lie on it,

above the

cleared catacombs,

knowing that its

immeasurable

lives that

grant you

peace.