Conch

I am layered in layers of laminated laden love,

limply lingering beneath the landlocked clouds above.

Peeling them back has proven to be painlessly painful,

proving to me that pain is so poetically unobtainable.

Clipping their roots to render them seedless, I’ve

selfishly collected my shell-fished secrets.

Traveling beaches to frequent the sea,

I’ve been silently searching for the

conch shell’s frequency.

Secretly selling those secrets

to ghosts I so frequently see,

I then dive beneath the waves -

join the fish, and peacefully flee.

For there are poetic pirates that be -

pirating the brine for truth, and debris.