As I dig and dig, the sand parts.
Somewhere along the way
I find a pretty rock
and further down, a shell.
the shell is shiny and curved just right.
Once I’ve stored it safely in my pocket,
I keep digging
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
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
regardless of its initial perspective.