Bread and Lemonade

One What good is it, to complicate flesh and bone you've yet to know? To paint portrait a brain only seeing the mask-y Face, It is a canvas that is sure to lie. What use is it, to flee a golden palace for a teeming forest? When you keep a garden, pregnant with bosoms And blooming fruits, wet juice down your chin, Why be curious for soil that may only beget soil? Siddhartha and I find ourselves akin. Such possibility! We starve. Him on Bread, I on words. Two I find myself encase in gasping silver, floating on some Orinoco, Holes poked to host the dry elbows, the crooked knees. It is a peculiar box, and three sizes too small. It is a sponge sighed shut to a scallop. Do you know how it feels to breathe Ocean? No. You've only once choked on your bathwater, And birthed a conniption. I breathe it every day. The lungs were only made for air. But it is not my place to curse God's hands; it is to swallow you whole. Would you be satisfied, Jonah, o Geppetto? You would feel just how tight the casket is, Rather than the sip of your sugared Lemonade.