Shells
When the words come up to end
Music enters for a while
And reflects what has been said
In its special kind of style
Through reflections I can see
Pictures that I could forget
If not music, with the sea
And the sand that’s always wet
Waves come up, and down they go
Foam licks the ochre line
Empty shells are rolling slow
This one’s yours, and that one’s mine..
Copyright © Gregory Colodub | Year Posted 2024
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