a distinct sense of discomfort permeates
rankling just beneath the skin
small stabs of pain that prick at the soft muscle
and so you do what you are famed for
wrapping one, no two, nay three layers of sheen over
the foreign object lodged within
protection you say, from all that hurts!
the tides ebb and flow
and the layers increase with its passing
behold! Its layers of lustre, the stratums of shine
then you realise too late,
with a vague sense of unfeelingness
that you no longer have a heart




for it’s encased in pearl
-

woe to that day if it ever comes, and i pray it never will. a moment of hurt is one thing, but a lifetime of unfeelingness is quite a horror altogether