Matryoshka

I look empty.
Empty as the dead egg in the dilapidated nest

Feel me
I feel smooth.
Smooth as the white pebble rounded by the restless water

Smell me
I smell woody.
Woody as the newly sharpened pencil lying on the desk

Taste me
I taste like nothing.
Nothing, like the surface of an apple newly freshly plucked.

Hear me
I sound not empty.
Not empty like a box of dominos shaken vigorously

Open me
Read from the top.