When you crack open the
shell and see the gooey innards,
there’s often an instinct to be
repelled and choke back the vomit.
That shell, crafted so delicately by
nurturing nature, or natural nurture,
is filled with the horrors and odd
delights of history, evolution and growth.
The shell is a rainbow of colors,
organized through layers of time,
chemical compositions and a symphony
of complex microscopic organization.
The inside is goo. Viscous goo.
Slopping and sloshing around in the
evolutionary marvel that is its
The goo has its purpose. It’s there to
fill a need. It’s not there as an accident,
it got their honestly. Despite the terrible
odor and the grayish blood color.
The shell survives each ordeal,
slapped, kicked, chipped, worn,
abused by elements and time,
a beautiful shield for the curiosity inside.
A curiosity, beating with fervent life,
crafted to be exactly what it is though
the struggles of whatever time had
hurled at the outside shell.
The insides aren’t always pretty,
sometimes it takes a while to
see the beauty, the effort and power
it took to be exactly what it is.