Reign Again

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.

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