A cuckoo who flew off the crow’s nest;
A diseased man on death bed;
A sparrow; a duck; in my head,
Endless metaphors run without rest.
Away, the birds fly,
All that live will die,
In my head – if I was five-
Thoughts otherwise, could thrive.
Alluring they shall sound,
Cause in one’s throat, a mound,
If the ghosts of loss, in my head,
Into paper, I transform and read.
But, why dwell on them, wail and cry?
I wasn’t five, yet I did try,
With the spirit of such, to hope and trust,
Ever-aware of the inevitable combust.
And someday maybe again,
To dream, the strength I’ll regain,
Maybe once more they’ll be slain,
Yet I’ll build the forts again and reign.