Eartha harbored an unorthodox digestion that fluttered around the rhythmic syncopation of psychopathy,
That pseudo-science that sought to photograph the soul.
She hummed along with the machine that roiled and bubbled with each breath she took,
She made mischief in not quieting that wispy part of herself,
Kept her spirit soaring outside the vacuous chamber and after half-an-hour of snapping shots of an empty space the researcher cut her loose,
Figured he was never onto something.
His failure in the theorum,
Rejection in the labwork,
He took the Scientific Principle and suffered it unsoundly,
Stepped outside the bounds with nothing to show for it,
Never realizing he was measuring the wrong thing,
Wrapped inside a brain’s frame instead of where it wanted to be:
Not benign but burgeoning, brilliantly shining beyond that metal, physical constraints,
Egg on his EEG that gyrated with each gesture but generated regular activity,
It broke him, he blustered and bore down on himself,
Swept his esteem under the rug with the broom-sweeps of failure,
Called self unfortunate in those nights that swallowed following,
Fearing the review board and knowing how they’d find.
Self-conscious, unconfident, he strapped himself in,
Took scans and sweeps and sought spirit in his own,
There it sat, cowering, cornered,
A craven-colored capsule that was his incorporeal,
That quivered at the prospect of being photographed,
But there is was, clear as day:
He threw the picture away though,
Confusing it for indigestion.