Monday, 13 February 2012

Seashell

And the world was spinning just like before,
but there was a man trying to withdraw,
alone he was, walking along the shore,
and there it was, a dead albicore,

The sharp bones, they were like a claymore,
bare foot was bleeding profusely, very sore,
he stopped, gazed up into the blue sky galore,
he pondered if there were fairies up there anymore;

He wondered if they can grant wishes,
or perhaps stop firewood from turning to ashes;
they seem to be there, forever are austere,
but will they never to interfere?

His foot was still in great pain,
Four minutes later the wound magically healed,
as if nothing had happened,
the left foot was just like the right;

he never again walk alongshore,
he is too afraid of the dead albicore,
once is enough, and no more,
but once in while, though he swore,
the scar refuses his call, evermore,
and bleeds again to the core;

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