Conch shells in pyramids are stacked impeccably <br />in the voluptuous heat, enormous severed ears. <br />Flushed and pinkish as a newly bathed infant’s face. <br />The outer lobe seems supple and frail. <br />Hollow, deserted, dislocated, and vacant, <br />they ressemble ornate abandoned houses. <br /> <br />Inside corridors meander and circle inward, <br />like a loosely wound scroll, <br />coiling, curling. <br /> <br />Physicists say that all the universe is a spiral. <br />Galaxies are merry-go-rounds, giddy with motion, <br />and the double helix will tell us who we are. <br />Roses unfurl in swirls. <br /> <br />We spin and piroutte from birth, <br />splicing our energy with the great pulse of the planet, <br />envisioning it eddying toward something as benign <br />and beautiful as a perfect conch shell.<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/conch-shell/
