The Shell

Spoken of in slight pity the shell is a sweet soul,

A beacon of light and a hearth whose fire went cold,

A heart once beat deep inside of it's walls,

It's thump faded, dwindled in the windy chill of fall,

Winter is gone yet the bite remains,

Out of a mystery wound blood begins to drain,

The shell is dead, the shell can die without dying,

The shell can, if it wants, fall apart without trying,

Cracks spread in the shell like ice on lake,

And soon if another heart should try, the shell should break.

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