Poorly planted, our love
Took root only in me.
Uprooted -- more cut low;
It still tries to sprout in this abandoned plot.
It was not the flower, but a shell.
A shell cutting me off from a world
I could know only through her.
But if a shell, what is missing in my gut?
And still I'd take her back.
Welcome her back.
Crawl back into my shell.
Obviously, other flaws aside, the last stanza is missing something. I haven't been satisfied with anything yet, but my least unsatisfied version is a final line: "(Could you be my seed?)"
Also playing with the final line of the second stanza. Perhaps: "But if just a shell, what's been ripped from my gut?" Still working with the metaphor.
All I can say for sure is I liked it much more before I wrote it down.
Did I mention T.S. Eliot is better than me? Reading him I am struck by his use of repetitions, refrains. I want to learn how to do that.