"SCRAMBLED EGGS"
There is nothing more we can do for them.
The words seemed to echo
off the walls of an endless pit
into which they were now falling.
Deep, dark, and inviting, they could see
speed past their vision,
tumbled the bright opening,
The impression of light streaking.
Reality results in one’s very own perception.
His name is Ed, Ed Daugherty.
Anne was his deception.
“It’s like when you’re dreaming”.
This was real to him.
Each song, and drink, a kiss, a trip,
a violent new beginning.
You see Ed had yet to learn
of temporary permanence,
and vice- versa, absolute,
the presence of Anne’s countenance,
.
.
This instant of memory,
scrawny knuckles were careening ,
off his damaged lover.
How loudly she was screaming.
In this time while Ed would play,
Anne his broken toy,
the difference hard to tell at times
between agony and joy.
He knew innately of the pain,
the precursor of pleasure.
This time when he struck it was,
the keyboards sound in measure.
One was driven to conclusion.
Was not this love their delusion?
Now his object of destruction,
this was Daugherty’s deduction.
They knew better , not a thing,
absorbed, discarded by Ed’s ring.
Justified by Ed’s blows,
a kiss upon her broken nose .
Loves attempted affirmation,
with out Anne’s consternation.
He was definitely driven ,
now loose upon their legs.
Imbalance recreates its self ,
what he called ‘scrambled eggs.’
In the absence of discipline,
he would call upon disciples.
In the absence of foundation,
they fell upon their trifles.
Except for an occasional, white, streak
he readied with his lover.
Fearing the great gap, the brink,
they would then lean over.
Desperately seeking bottom,
deep, dark, and inviting.
Having never ventured there
much to their delighting.
He would jump, arms spread wide,
blissful anticipation.
His face was ruined against the walls,
of Anne’s constellation.
The words seemed to echo
off the walls of an endless pit
into which they were now falling.
Deep, dark, and inviting, they could see
speed past their vision,
tumbled the bright opening,
The impression of light streaking.
Reality results in one’s very own perception.
His name is Ed, Ed Daugherty.
Anne was his deception.
“It’s like when you’re dreaming”.
This was real to him.
Each song, and drink, a kiss, a trip,
a violent new beginning.
You see Ed had yet to learn
of temporary permanence,
and vice- versa, absolute,
the presence of Anne’s countenance,
.
.
This instant of memory,
scrawny knuckles were careening ,
off his damaged lover.
How loudly she was screaming.
In this time while Ed would play,
Anne his broken toy,
the difference hard to tell at times
between agony and joy.
He knew innately of the pain,
the precursor of pleasure.
This time when he struck it was,
the keyboards sound in measure.
One was driven to conclusion.
Was not this love their delusion?
Now his object of destruction,
this was Daugherty’s deduction.
They knew better , not a thing,
absorbed, discarded by Ed’s ring.
Justified by Ed’s blows,
a kiss upon her broken nose .
Loves attempted affirmation,
with out Anne’s consternation.
He was definitely driven ,
now loose upon their legs.
Imbalance recreates its self ,
what he called ‘scrambled eggs.’
In the absence of discipline,
he would call upon disciples.
In the absence of foundation,
they fell upon their trifles.
Except for an occasional, white, streak
he readied with his lover.
Fearing the great gap, the brink,
they would then lean over.
Desperately seeking bottom,
deep, dark, and inviting.
Having never ventured there
much to their delighting.
He would jump, arms spread wide,
blissful anticipation.
His face was ruined against the walls,
of Anne’s constellation.
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