Pearl: Italian Sonnet

A pearl is a nasty little thing, in truth.
The shameful blunder that an oyster made
Only burgeons to impossible size
When covered over with a glistening lie.
Each carefully secreted layer serves
Only to add discomfort to the days
Of the soft beast inside its rigid world
Which disallows for anything but truth.

But I can see it glisten beauteously
Inside the hollow just below your neck.
Redeemed at last, unhindered, free from walls,
The layers, not the grit, are the true pearl.
The manufactured surface glows with light
It matches the gleam in your eyes.