The Cuckoo’s Journey

As night makes
sleepers slave to dreams,
the cuckoo softly peeps;
its voice this way
deflects its anger’s
channel, it is (eyes
shut; mouth, haunting,
open) sublimating
nature’s deep depravity—
it is from birth a murderer
and parasites real bird’s
labours—its unending
whimpering is both its
thumb-sucking dread of life
and unintended call for more—
the other birds are
burdened by its useless
and abnormal sighing,
its cryptic wing’s sigils on
the starlit wind, its charmless
daytime posturing—they wake
in fright, hearing him, her,
checking eggs for changelings,
calling too to sleepwalkers in
their ageless inert state:
“Beware! beware!
The cuckoo!”

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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