The Broken, The Furyful, and the Given Up

I saw a broken seashell today.

It’s crown and center was split and gone,

And it was beautiful in its partiality.

So I took a picture of it.

The backdrop was an Atlantic storm.

It raged and fumed with anger and fear,

And it loomed as if from the broken seashell.

They were together in their lonesomeness.

The smell of the tail end of a cigarette caught me.

It pushed and pulled and twisted and whispered,

And it completed a strange myriad of feelings.

I had found my personal trinity,

One of the broken,

The furyful,

And the given up.