Their bodies, luminous eggs,
glob along beaches,
golden ovals on black shoals of shingle.
They bounce against the edges of cities,
quiver and wobble beneath the velvet cloth
upon which the moon glimmers a rib-bone.
Endlessly pining, they seek
to engage one another, never realising
the birth they long for is their own.
Slick, thick, oily membrane envelops them
repelling friend and foe alike.
They remain trapped in their aloneness,
cast about themselves for points of view,
for the blade of truth that sets them free.
Alas they bobble,
little bobbleheads -
one by one
down the streets of the enfolding years -
blind, deaf, dumb,
reproducing in brief mitosis,
storing data in streams of binary codes
to explain why they are alone.
A collection of knowledge, opinions
from this one and that,
in attempts at longevity,
the hope that accumulated chicken scratches
might someday illuminate -
never realising the perfect completeness
of their viscous egglike forms,
missing the white light that flares within.