Good Egg

Should we not bow...

to the egg?

It birthed us.

Long before we had names,

before we stood,

before we fell,

The Shell.

And silence.

And heat.

And heartbeat.

That little chamber of everything

sealed in a perfect, dome.

Man’s first feast?

Maybe.

Finger lickin' lizard egg.

Stone cracking feathered yolk.

Hands scooping fish spawn in the dark.

The egg fed us

before the hunt,

before the harvest,

before the lie.

But then...murdered.

Strapped to cold steel tables,

sliced by science not for truth,

but for triumph.

Data drawn from her broken breath.

Progress poured over her like acid rain.

No prayer.

No pause.

No poetry.

And now?

Now the egg is tired.

Depleted.

Industrialized.

Sterilized.

Traumatized.

Yolk turned pale.

Shell thinned by greed.

Sad.

Deeper than sad.

Rage.

A silent scream wrapped in calcium.

A golden grief 

we bite 

without even tasting.

Let this be the reckoning.

Let this be the voice

of every egg

ever cracked

without reverence.

Because the valiant egg

deserved

a song.

-Hermit King-