The shell washes empty,

a glossy sunrise in the wake.



A cool gun warms with

glowing intensity in his hand.



The shell’s body spirals, falls,

twists to reach its crown



His fingers quiver slightly as they lace

around the trigger.



Its pale rose and babies breath shimmer

in the dim light of sunset.



The color finally returns to his cheeks,

flushed with the decision of death.



The shell’s body is worn from tidal wrath;

sighs echo from deep within its hollow, majestic chamber.



His last breath rattles, clings,

then releases.



I hold the conch up to my ear, expecting the sound of calm,

but only hear blood rushing through my head.



The bullet is exploding,

anchoring his fate.



The shell washes empty,

a glossy sunrise in the wake.