If we are only seashells,
coral spirals of enigma
wrapped inside a toughened skin,
would we delve into the sacred center
and let the silence in?
What is that sound inside?
The thrumming beat of a heart denied?
The tortured cadence of compassion's tide?
or the shattered dreams underneath abide?
Can we sit down and agree
that none of us know anything,
and with each new discovery
all the more chaos do we bring?
And what is that throb below
the breastbone sternum point
wrecking the stomach with acidic glow,
where the soul's fear chooses to anoint?
Beyond the unknown is the abyss
where nothing is sacred; all is remiss
Chaos is unveiled as a woman in chains
consorting with a man with holes in his brains
a experimental maze;
A dashed hope
now lying stagnant
through insignificant haze
What say you of this smallest spark,
the soul within the spiral of dark?