poeticquery (Remove filter)
"where is my oyster?"
i lean into the salt wind,
fingers tracing faint ridges
in damp sand.
“Where is my oyster?” i ask the horizon,
its answer swallowed by surf.
Kester Reed waits behind a driftwood break,
taps the shell-shards underfoot,
listens for that hollow note
that might be its name.
“What would it be, even?” he murmurs,
searching for shape in shadows.
O...
Tuesday 12th August 2025 11:47 pm
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