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This anatomy that I live with each day,
Contains me in every way.
Sometimes when it’s healthy and strong,
The core feels weary lacking an inner song.
I dress my shell so the world may see,
But the I called me, awaits its destiny.
Trapped in a covering that I shall not lose,
But the I called me appreciates what I did not choose.
I find me when I lose my shell,
My imperfections all go to hell.
The shell that I occupy is not my own,
My parent’s gift, a genetic loan.
My shell and I live separate lives,
When I meditate he close his eyes.
We pray together but exist apart,
A match made in heaven from the start.
I have seen my shell but he only hears of me,
And just like him I await to see.
Am I an effervescent or some vaporous mass?
Am I rich or poor? Don’t know my class.
The shell I have, I won’t have always,
But the I called me, I have to stay.
By: Jamal Archer
jasonjamal.wordpress.com 