Sand of days

I scuttled on the salty sand of days,
in fear of ocean's dark and drowning waves,
with threaded strands to show where I had been,
and fear to drag in sodden, seaweed cling.
Without a shell to hide the softened Self,
the enemies could rise in brutal stealth,
and all that was so vulnerable decried,
with nowhere left for me to ever hide.
To dig within the grains of gritty hope,
and bury tender self with nothing shown,
was all that life allowed until the time,
that carapace could cover heart and mind.