A touch of sadness decorates the sea,
my home: those cold beds where I nestle,
filtering through what washes over me
for nourishment. I am nothing special:
a simple bivalve, brainless, hardly more
intelligent than the surrounding rock
deposited by that volcano or
tsunami, some upheaval. I take stock
of what I am only when grains of sand
make my interior a living Hell.
I hold these tears to help me understand
why I am here: why you might feel compelled
to slip a knife into my little world,
and twist, until I pop, in search of pearl.
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