Kev's Musings and Shared Journal

The Seashell
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There is a smooth soft-petaled shell
that sits neatly on my window sill.
It is ivory on bottom,
pink in it's innermost center,
neat as a white sheet of paper.
It fits in the palm of my hand,
neatly as a glove when thought of,
fingers curling around it's curves.

It's spirals remember Chaos.
Exponentially, they take space
and they manifest shell-beauty.
It's smoothness remembers Order,
interrupted by tessalations
that bubble to it's glass-like surface.

When simply beheld, the spiralled shell
is quiet like ripples on a lake.
Clutched to the ear, a chaos is heard
with a boundary I cease to see.
Tightly bound, in it's own form round,
potential unfurled to an edge.

The shell silently keeps it's secrets,
unsound concerning it's origin
from the depths of a now absent
infinitude with a boundary,
only yielding flirtatious hints
as to it's first perturbation
when it first laid in the salt-depths
of it's wild sea-green mother.

But I don't question it's purpose,
or let it go unnoticed
so the song will still be heard
the original sound unerred
on some day when I need it the most.