The shell

The love of a mother hen towards her egg is the testament of an unbroken umbilical cord between mother and child,
An egg shell once whole, now lies in small pieces,
A fragile beauty, broken, beyond recall can never be compare to the rising of sunset.
Its curves and swirls, a work of art divine,
Now shattered, like the dreams that once did shine and flourish.

The waves that once caressed it, now crash and roar ,
A bitter irony, on the shore.
The shell that once protected, now lies exposed uncared and Bater,
A vulnerable reminder, of life's fragile pose to as to make the right choice.

Yet, in its brokenness, a new tale unfolds,
A story of resilience, like gold.
For in the cracks and shards, a new beauty's born kept warm cozy under the doting feather of the mother hen,
A testament to strength, that's weathered the storm.

So let the waves wash over, let the winds blow strong,
For in the broken shell, a new song is sung.