A Head of Humor
A head of ironic humor. A cranium of hidden hemispheres
Random sequencing egrets to the right, telling fibs,
And out to the left fledged on a wing and a wing.
A flight of continual white lightning in sync
To keeping-up eyes. Perceptible of themselves high,
Should these egrets be caged behind closed eyes―
How cramped, they’d have to fold a long neck,
A leg, and a leg into an egg yolk in effect―
A paragon for how a storm rushes in convoked
To usher benign weather; instead, they poke
Each other’s eye for an eye, out on a rebellious hinge
Of croaking gnaws. So when the light finally falls in,
They’d still be in the dark with old grievances worsen
Which never do resolve. Each with a different version
Of events but never heard―from each other
They ripped their tongues in hysterical fury’s shudder.
They’re a graveyard that death doesn’t pester,
Not even a misled wind ruffles their feathers
For these demand breath and a sigh to a pale dull.
Oops! They’re a slipped and cracked egg, distasteful.
