Days by the Seashore
What is man if not a shadow of himself,
And a shadow of every measure dealt
In sculpturing his torso's timely welts?
What is woman if not a mere seam
To be reminisced, stitched in memory
Appropriately where fashion dwells?
That is why all is swell;
That is why all we waltz—
We are all shells of ourselves,
Lying by the seashore.
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