Nicole Mē | Original Poetry | Original Spoken Word Poetry

String of Pearls

 
Staring down a string of pearls – nose to the pewter clasp;
one eye screwed up like I'm about to
fire a shot.
 
But on the other side of my pearlescent line
is only claw,

which resembled a hand before it was visited with bitterness
(or so say those in the know).
 
I'm looking with wrinkled concentration
for any small reflection:
all but seeped away into the iridescent membrane
– a trace of dribble the only remains.
 
I'm beautiful when I dream.

I know that much
because I see the longing for me
 
in the recurring eyes on different faces behind which lies
my self esteem.
 
If the string unfurled its agony
– every oyster's story, and my own thrown in for extra pressure –
who would leap over the spewing baubles,
skipping in avoidance?
 Who would dance?
 
Take up the challenge
of holding hands with loose pearls on a desperate mission?
 
Would realise that, when all comes to rest,
it's still a pearl that's held in hand?