Burden of the Sun

I don’t like not knowing

where I’m going

or where you’re going

or where the sun’s going.

Especially

when it dips down low

behind the clouds

and the trees

and the wind.

I’m afraid the birds

will be frightened

and start searching for it,

they’ll fly too close

to the ground

and break their beaks

or clip their wings.

 

Much like the sun,

I too must leave.

If only for a cup

of coffee or tea

(never tea)

I need a break

from all these birds

chasing me.

Its not healthy,

nor is it wise,

to let things

with wings

drive you

behind the skies.

They might get

caught

on the shoreline,

or snagged

in a cloud,

one that’s bright

and pink

and mistaken

for cotton candy.

 

Imagine that,

all the broken wings

and feathers

meant for flying

and gliding

and filling

your grandmothers pillow.

They’d be scattered

and crushed

against the grains of sand

you set out

the night before

you slipped behind

a sunset.

 

All day to spend

stitching and glueing

the fractured

bones

and brittle beaks

that run down

your dreams

and steal

your sleep.

Lucky the sun

to have

some thread

and glue

and pins

to fix the bent

and steel

the weak.

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