Acorn Shell

The shell is halved by a squirrel, foraging for nuts. Half shell on asphalt looks like a biker helmet on the ground. The rider is not underneath the hard hat. The outer layer reminds of mountain crags on close inspection. Ridges and peaks, high in altitude, climbers pushing to summit. Over the void of rocky cliffs, the eye fathoms eternal thoughts. Figures in landscape, peaking for the heavens above. The acorn is turned upside down. In the cavernous pit, there are two holes. At first, it curves down to a snout. A pig in a pen nosing through mud for feed. Grunts and snorts. Eons of dirty sleep with flies Circling the stench. The shell turns in my hands. The shape gives shutter. It is the eye sockets of a skull An existential screaming demon with black eyeless voids, Telling a journey to emptiness and absence. The acorn shell tells a story of worlds. I turn it over again. And the biker helmet comes back to view, On top of my head.