Shells

Written by James Wolff

This place is simply used.

Like a shell,

our cosmic bastion has run dry

of the things we need to survive.

The future we feared is present

and simultaneously future as well.

It seems a disgrace

that we could call such a place

home.

 

 

Strewn about, there are hollowed shells

of bullets and

of bodies that

rose and fell against concrete stained by men

for men who served man after man;

shells that were held by one girl

that reminded her of the beach;

a jar of the like, which were all homes at one point,

then washed to shore after they were used;

shells that she held close to her

while fearing what came next.

 

James Wolff, a third-year psychology major, likes to  write poetry, hike, and play acoustic guitar.

James Wolff, a third-year psychology major, likes to write poetry, hike, and play acoustic guitar.

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