The pearl, of roil mystic nature,
The oyster does, but knows not why.
The same implies, the beauty as strung.

Not a perfect sphere, nothing to chip,
None needed but buffed to shine.
We've seen them, held them, compared.

An inner facet, or inlaid finnished,
An oriental theme, marbled like image.
And the such as, cultured only alike.

As if the oysters engulfed it, it did not,
But formed it from within, and if to say,
It's true beauty is only in the inside.

©2007, Ron Globe