Not Frying Eggs

Not frying eggs, falling water.Events of the week took a turn earlier, but all sorted now. Find out what they were below.


Not Frying Eggs

Why the rush to come home?

6.30, 7pm, to darkness, an empty house,

Where these sounds of eggs frying in too

Much cooking oil fill the air, a single set of sensory,

But for missing the others, such like the scents,

Ones that would invade the nostrils,

As they rain amongst the atmospheric molecules,

Everyone we breathe and sift through in just moments,

Only all that can be heard, resembles in truth cascades,

Water racing, falling, rushing beneath elevated stained

Timber floor boards, some wide, some narrow,

To then tear across the tops of concrete block walls

Dropping to a piece meal under slab floor,

That’s when reality hit, those missing scents,

Led to feet bounding one over the other as hands,

Emptied all contents beneath the mango tree,

To take up a flight of stairs when friction spoke to the true events,

As work boots bound in natural plant fibre failed to find friction,

Balance became lost and what almost became the top in the darkness,

Soon reaped gravity like a river in falling liquid all the way,

To waiting saturated and what seemed a long wait in mud and floating grass,

Shut the water off came the tune inside a now sore head, and

Note , never, never try to land on your head when it’s one’s feet,

That should be doing the walking, no racing up, not down,

Wet stairs teaming with water, falling  in night’s early darkness.

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