My consciousness is an egg fresh-hatched,

its shell the limit of my awareness.

Contained within this brittle yet unyielding

and beautiful – smooth, shapely ovoid –

incubating encasement of ignorance

(beyond which lies God knows what)

is all of which I can conceive.


In here, there’s the white, and there’s the yolk, and there’s me.

By me, I mean my self, obviously,

as vigorously I embryo grow,

develop, mature, going through my changes

dwelling in the white, voraciously

feeding on it and the energy-rich yolk until…


Sufficiently (albeit barely) fully formed,

I am ready for…


For what?


I’m not sure.


But I suspect

that, outside the egg,

it will not just be me and my food.