Pearl: Italian Sonnet

A pearl is a nasty little thing, in truth.
The shameful blunder that an oyster made
Only burgeons to impossible size
When covered over with a glistening lie.
Each carefully secreted layer serves
Only to add discomfort to the days
Of the soft beast inside its rigid world
Which disallows for anything but truth.

But I can see it glisten beauteously
Inside the hollow just below your neck.
Redeemed at last, unhindered, free from walls,
The layers, not the grit, are the true pearl.
The manufactured surface glows with light
It matches the gleam in your eyes.

Life is made up of long moments and short months.

Is it a sign of happiness that whenever you express what you feel it ends up sounding really cheesy? Cause right now everything does. And I'm pretty happy.

Sin doesn't leave the way it's supposed to,

with great chunks rooted ruthlessly.

Sin shrinks and shrinks

and stares into you with unshrinking eyes.

All sin, entire sin, even when

scratched and peeling

it wears and rubs

in the intolerable acid of virtue.

Virtue doesn't make us any cleaner.

To Be Revised...

Sin creeps away

slow and unsteadily

like an old grandmother

who clings and pets

and who you

sometimes

almost pity.

I think some people do this to their lives....

1. To remove those parts considered offensive, vulgar or adult in nature.

   the bowdlerised version of the text, while free of vulgarity, was also free of flavour

   Etymology

   From Thomas Bowdler who in 1818 published a censored version of Shakespeare, expurgating "...those words and expressions are omitted which cannot with propriety be read aloud in a family."