“Little broken seashells”

The small, winding pathway leading up to my home consists not of gray pebbled gravel, raw earth, or paved lusciousness, but rather, little broken seashells sun-bleached white by the harsh sun. A path of stark white shells that contrasts shamelessly with the darkly furnished interior of my home; but as you can plainly see, it so pleasantly complements my home’s painted façade. It’s a quiet path though, interrupted only by a few creeping dandelions, cautious of their intrusion, yet wise enough to know they have nothing to fear on this infrequently traveled walkway. If you come close enough, you can distinguish all the irregular fragments, the ones smoothed by the sea’s endurance, and the others sharpened by newly broken edges of hope, each one pulverized further with each heavy step. It’s a mosaic of shattered pieces that glistens in the sun’s glare, speckled with sea glass–flecks of green, dark blue, and amber light– like the dropped gems of faded memories not quite forgotten by time. I suppose you could say it’s just a pathway where shards of shells are shifted by passersby who pretend to know the address of the home they reach at its end.

a/n: this is completely experimental, I was just trying to do something in a prose/poetry paragraph. let me know what you think. and sorry for the tight spacing. I tried to double space, but it just wasn't working out.