Seashells and Sorrows

The ocean is home to a curation of shells, The type you admire, the kind you call into, The ones that whisper stories the sea never tells. The peach and the pink, the pastels and the white — All of them bring such a sense of delight. I trace my finger over each and every grove and indent, Each fracture and dent, Wondering what they have seen, and what places they went. I wonder if they are signs — heaven-sent. This poet wonders — does she know the truth that is grand? The shell that is pretty mesmerizes those little eyes While the sea calls out her name for help. Sand between her toes and wind through her hairs, She felt every emotion one feels at a shore. The next scene was haunting — it took away her innocence. Fishes started to wash up on the shore, The water began to form bubbles. As she looked at her mother, who Whispered with her eyes- “Sorry, my precious little baby, Forgive the humankind, For the future we will leave behind.”