cuckoo-bird

​

my mind is no early riser

there is no belonging under the kind sun

as happy-go-lucky as you’d liked me to be,

I leave that to the cuckoo birds who run

like the wind-up toys I used to let loose

on the periwinkle flowers of my boxed up kingdom

 

let the birds soak up all the light 

serve Apollo until his kithara sings the loveliest songs 

and leave for me the remnants of the shine,

diamond dust blown from the hands of Hades 

scattering riches (though I find them incredibly common)

where no one but his children can reach.

 

lilacs and fire so alive I can almost feel 

the flames caress and lick my skin

yet just before my index, rise for the eternal

before my craving eyes

they collapse consumed — Nyx is content 

for you time has gone, for me I feel it stretch on in its languor

 

my mind is no early riser

but there’s a home under the ivory lustre 

after Morpheus starts traveling room to room

and Selene blossoms under the attention of her daughters

there’s my home —we children of the fall

I suppose, can only feel so alone

 

until the rise of the night. I guess I break 

the pattern, from its pieces I hide behind the cloak 

Erebus kindly lets me borrow — my thoughts disturb 

the precious sleep Hypnos grants to those who abide 

I am most brave when I trade the birds for the owls

 

and when the fire is out in the sky and I hold its remnant 

gifted from the gods, between my index and my third

the words come easy and the music tastes divine

and until the yellow chases away the black and my home

is temporarily in a pawnshop window 

I’m a moonchild and I belong.