The Golden Egg

The Golden Egg

We might be
A strange Breed
Of story monkeys.
Weaving tales
To defends
Our inadequacies;
Justifying our right
To consume
To fill that hole
From the outside in.
Going to war to
Decide which story
Will define the world.
It has to be the one
That feeds me,
For I’ll never
Have enough,
I’ll never fill that hole.
The act of
Consumption
A deception
Which reinforce
Feelings of scarcity,
Splintering our unity.
This hole
Is meant to be filled
From the inside out;
Spirit pushing
Through it
In an act of
Creation.
Un oeuf* is enough
One golden egg
To fill us all.
Brooding over
The egg of inspiration
With our imagination,
Waiting for creation
To hatch out.
The only way
I know to feel satiated,
To experience abundance.
So lets not listen
To the tall tales
Of hunger
Spread by our leaders.
We are not defined
By the stuff we consume
But by the essence
Of what we share.
I am a monkey,
And with this story
I lay here for you
A golden egg
That fills
Me with glee.

© Didier Beaugrand