Press your ear to the curling cathedral of the sea
a whelk shell, spiraled like time wound tight
in the palm of your hand.
Inside, it sings.
Not merely the hush of ocean breath,
but a symphony of forgotten tongues,
laced with tide-born secrets
and lullabies the moon once hummed
to sleeping mermaids.
There are voices there
not loud, but layered.
A queen’s lament in coral dialect,
a sailor’s prayer trapped in brine,
the laughter of children carved from salt wind
and the sighs of lovers
who kissed in storms
and vanished with the foam.
The shell remembers.
It remembers sirens and sea gods,
the bell of sunken ships,
the beat of a kraken’s pulse beneath the deep.
Every spiral is a hallway
where echoes wander barefoot,
never aging, never ending.
It is a conch of dreams,
a theater of phantom tides,
where time does not tick but swells
each sound a shimmer,
each note a net
catching the impossible.
Hold it longer.
Listen deeper.
The ocean does not speak in waves alone.
Inside this whelk,
you hear eternity rehearsing its lines
softly, endlessly,
for those who dare to listen.