a poem about boiled eggs

A poem about boiled eggs

What strange alchemy happens in those boiling shells that renders the soft soup of embryo to a hardened jelly?
Any scientist who claims to know this process is a liar and a con artist.
The mysteries contained within the walls of that brittle housing aren’t meant for our understanding.
If a human were to grasp the mechanisms of a boiling egg, they would immediately reach Nirvana and transcend the material plane.
I keep my boiled eggs in a plastic bag, moistened by steamy condensation from the cooking process.
That way the eggs feel at home.
It’s like they never left the shell.
I take all the broken shells from years back and construct a great and beautiful man-sized shell.
I incubate my dreams in the shell.
That’s where I live.