The shell of an
egg is soft and weak.
But the marble,
Made unbreakable
by human means
Creates a newer
species.
Surrounding.
Protecting.
And made heavy
with stories from generation
To generation.
The polished
gleam is fading
But the egg
refuses to dent its new armor.
White shine has
turned to barely a
White gloss.
Darkened trails
are truly
Battle scars.
The egg fits
perfectly in the palm of a hand.
Ready to be
nurtured.
Ready to be
thrown.
It sits heavy in
your pocket
Begging for
attention.
It’s dull,
unflinching armor
Becomes its
body. It’s existence.
The cold shell
heated only by
Touch.
Beauty reduced
by
Disregard.
This egg does
not nourish
But needs to be nourished
itself.
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