Scrambled Eggs
Mercy on the scrambled eggs I was reminiscing about.
When I flipped them over, there was a message.
Stripped down as a blade.
And my fingers are dazed.
Mercy on cabbages in the fridge.
Just popped in as if a cabbage patch lives nearby.
And my skeleton is laced up like eggs.
Patches of them.
I have enough notebooks bleeding everywhere.
Nonsense notebooks.
And when something is nonsense, they assume it’s like piano keys being played with my mind.
Mercy on all the pens that survived the surge.
Electricity.
They took all the lightning rods away like notebooks.
And my skeleton is seeking a better shelter.
Scrambled eggs.
Part of the surge.
Horrible.
The survival test taught me to leave messages.
Scratches up like bricks.
Mercy on the cabbages.
Mercy on the lightning rod.
Mercy on nonsense notebooks.
Lasted as long as stretching and yawning ever could.
Scrambled eggs.
Groaning too.
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