This mocking bird sings
but the songs do not belong
this voice spills
but the sounds come through
like vibrations along string
there’s the tin beak
and a hidden can a way in the distance
these wings drip black
words spill like dreams and drops
a quill to still the dark night
but in what bottle were these feathers dipped
whose heart beat this rhythm and rhyme
still mocking bird lives and loves
sees the sun and flies high
to light the earth with a new shine
see – watch me course my arc
‘cross the sky
till I park in the western gates
but bird’s gift is not his own
and there’s a golden chariot
already in stables
so mocking bird flies on
riding the rails
and stealing the tales
telling them again
with tears and laughs and
someone else’s voice taped to his own
he’s alright though
making other people’s friends
and living though the smiles
and loving through the hopes
and climbing over the stiles
entering lands that would deny him
mocking bird owns the world
and writes it’s end
so sad to write the world’s end
but the beginning is written too
hope clawed from the hand of another
just change the order
and watch the world die and be born again
mocking bird shapes dead golems
but no life in these
no one’s will is done
and airborne he leaves
clay bodies in his wake
no child to sing his songs
mocking bird makes his nest
woven of folly and old lines
cast from the mouths
of the ancients
and bonded with their shadows
grown too large to stay in their place
and mocking bird sleeps
dreaming other’s dreams
who’s life to live next