A Delicate Shell

Yes it’s a bubble, one I can see

It huddles and hides, and keeps me to me

Its shell is quite hard, and is seldom broken

Though many a word from inside is spoken

 

But it reverberates and echoes inside the shell

No sounds have been uttered, as much as the outside can tell

It is merely a round thing, like an egg or a rock

Simply an object, something of which to take stock

 

But not to listen to, not something that makes sounds

Nothing to shock or to stimulate those around

If nothing is heard, has a word been uttered?

With a shell this thick, no thoughts have been muttered

 

Sometimes it takes a huge rock to shatter the shell

And sometimes the contained is broken as well

But it has to be done if thoughts are to be heard

To be broken free, so one can sing like a bird.

 

Barbara Blackcinder