Sand Tunnels

As I dig and dig, the sand parts.

Somewhere along the way

I find a pretty rock

and further down, a shell.

Upon inspection

the shell is shiny and curved just right.

Once I’ve stored it safely in my pocket,

I keep digging

searching, perhaps,

for myself.

 

As time passes,

my hands cover in coarse brown sand,

undusted as the hole gets larger;

my perspective widens.

Hands thick with soot,

brow furrowed against the sunlight,

I see the other side.

 

I reach a moment of clarity,

one where looking down at my hands

reminds me of what I’ve done,

what I’ve put myself through

and brought myself out of—  

rising past the thorns

and out from the depths of holes.

 

When I sit on the edge,

inspecting each rock and shell—

collected, weighing down my pockets

clouding my surroundings—

I see what is really there;

beneath the shine,

the dull, bumpy colouring of a dented shell;

the odd shaping of a crystalline rock.

 

These symbolic items

and their romantic elements

shatter

with their imperfections.

A new, cracked image

shows them as they are—

flaws and all—

shining a light on the fuse between

beautiful edges and faulty cracks.

The overall shape and being

of a simple element

strengthens,

regardless of its initial perspective.

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