Fetal Yoga Yolk

Crafting real out of mystery

As time passes the threshold of ignorance’s cloak

To be a maudlin pity in a wrinkled festoon of a man

Dangling there asked to be purposeful

Huffing feckless ineptitude with exasperated lungs

Contemplating a towering stairwell

Of using these legs and abdomen to ascend

Not his who was assumed to be this

In the alcoves of assumption dodging  

Waiting to be found out by the troubadours and cavaliers

Of feminine role reversal clamoring for a good show

He is a haggard mess, insular and rolled

Tight, embryotic into fetal yoga where the ego

Is a tsunami encapsulated in a yolk

Pierced, the pulp oozes meekly

Contained, the maelstrom’s gale rains unending conundrums  

For whatever one is thought to be to the blind

One never was

Such is the scour of the internal eye

Drowning wretches