the pale moon shines silver,
all along the empty beach.
not one figure within sight,
except perhaps a drop of bleach.

a white shell, to be correct.
ever so beautiful atop the sand,
but if you were to flip it,
why, wouldn't look as grand...

its battle scars, its wounds,
all would be revealed.
do we not do the same thing,
and keep our scars concealed?

there are people who find shells,
who feel distust over its pain,
they throw these shells away at
the oceans silvery cold domain.

there are others who find shells
and are struck by thier fault
they'll see the very same scar
and tresure it with exalt

and we all are the same,
ever waiting for one to see,
the nobility of our scars,
the beauty in you and me.

 
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