I once saw a man fold an omelet that wasn’t an egg,
from a block of cheese that wasn’t quiche or folded,
in a blanket of dust curling like lazy ghosts on a stove,
that wasn’t a stove but a shell of something noir,
revealing a seam of a crack in the box that wasn’t,
fondue, but an omen of a yoke.
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Incredible write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian