An eggshell splits between your fingers,
and everything that was concealed
spills out at once.

This is not a smooth, white oval.
This is not a hard and unrevealing object.
Hard and unrevealing, unbelieving,
because before you cracked it
everything was imaginary.

It makes a mess on the frying pan,
but you assure me that
you did it right.

“See all the choices, all at once,” you say,
“Now, scrambled or fried?”

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

A Morbid Attraction

The cemetery is alive,
more alive than
the lofty woods that
glower around it,
than dining halls
that pump
bodies like blood vessels,
in an out — flex and

here, in the heat
the cemetery smells sweet,
perhaps a morbid
sort of attraction —

yet still she sits against
the headstone,
married to life
that was once,
once was.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

A Symphony To A Drone

It becomes.

Discordant — not
together. Dissonance — out
of pitch. Is there a pitch?
No. Not clear.


Crescendo. Key. Clear,
I hear.
Crescendo. Forte.

Leitmotif detected.

How do they say?
Destruction — a
personified devastation.

Key switch.

Piano. P i a n i s s i m o.

Lamentoso. Their
is a fluctuating
scale, a line in
green becomes red and
Frequency — shrill.

D e c r e s c e n d o.
A cadence alone.

Espressivo! ESPRESSIVO!

And here the octaves meet
the mark.

2 2 3 4, 3 2 3 4, 4 2 3 4

Full stop.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe