I. 

I am a spitting image of what could

have been a different future, flesh and blood.

Somewhere along the coasts, or where

smog chokes the lungs of those who beg for money,

heats beat in harmonious unison, flesh and blood.

Still an egg with a blank canvas, full of life

and infinite potential, the year drags on.

Maybe in the Colorado sunrise, or Mount Vernon,

or maybe six feet below the surface, flesh and blood.

Cursive lines of bittersweet text and teenage “wisdom”

crack the egg, but paradoxically, a second path

illuminates the dawn, and potential lives on,

or so I hope.

II.

I am he, and he is me, and we are all together, flesh and blood.

Always and forever, words unspoken, unheard,

what was this egg told? Reverting to the past

the different future, an option, flesh and blood.

One decision, one movement, could have taken

it all away, flesh and blood,

but the year drags on with a half-empty canvas.

Was it the egg before the chicken, or was it

always flesh and blood? Passed as

instruments for her creation within the

reconstruction from the subconscious upward?

III.

The friend of a friend, the unwilling friend,

whose past and future cannot coexist, as

he rejects the peeling of the second layer.

He and me are of two generations which

change and corrupt as equally as the market

fluctuates, creating those evicted souls, whose

lungs fill with smog and beg for money.

And irrelevant sidewalks and street corners

show no remorse, no choice for the egg, flesh and blood.

Conformity, whose liberty remains chained

to the other path, to all flesh and blood.

But I am not he, you see.

I am the Walrus.

Now, come together, over me, as

he is me, my flesh and blood.

Always and forever.

Coo-Coo-Kachoo.

Or so I hope…