To lay or not to… hatch

And then there were nests of days like that
when embryonic poems stared at one another
and she at them, all suspended in the vagueness
of egg-shaped conditions with hard and yet
frail walls of words, and silence, as thick as
the whites of eggs are, cushioning the yolks
inside.

Still, they were better than those other days
of words screaming to hatch; when all would
try to squeeze through a passage much too tight
throwing at each other fallacies of exclusivity
- again egg-shaped, but of a solidity encasing
mere denial of its own frailty about to crack
and spread glutinous perceptions of sameness
side by side.

Oh, dilemmas of poetic fecundation, of quills
yet to reveal the colours to fly or not to fly, and the
ripe dynamics of the feathers behind and to soar or not 
beyond them…what poems, what birds, if any, were
laid, indeed, to live? There are days like this…
when you, words, seem to be meant, and she, not to
hatch at all; and be simply scrambled, while
fresh, with a pinch of salt, to be eaten by no one but…
… the poet herself, sitting, plate on her lap, by
some unuttered, wistful synonym of window
- and staring at those cacophonic hens the muses
turned into, vacantly pecking at a blank sheet of paper
outside.

(Burp...)

© 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®