Who will break, and fix, it with me?

Living grows round us like a skin
To shut away the outer desolation
For if we clearly mark the furthest deep
We should be dead long years before the grave
But turning around within the homely shell
Of worry discontent and narrow joy
We grow and flourish
And rarely see the outside dark that would confound our eyes.

Some break the shell.

I think that there are those that push their fingers through the brittle walls
And make a hole
And through this cruel slit
Stare out across the cinders of the world with naked eyes
They look both out and in
Knowing them selves and too much else beside.

[The Shell by Molly Drake]