Early is the New Late
The worm caught in its beak, the early bird celebrates.
But the worm changes quickly, pulling on its
Cocktail dress, as it prepares to fly out, leaving the others
With mouthwash, or something stronger, on their breath.
The bird weeps. Joy within its reach,
It could have been satisfied with a single peck.
But heavy hearts left the tempting fountain,
Speeding through the rituals that lead to change.
Anguish is mine as I fly away. Joy was so close,
But I reached too slowly. What of second chances?
My wings and beak wish for yes, but my mind refuses.
I wander on, catching insects in the dark,
Forcing them down my throat.
Stuff I forgot that I wrote. quinnathan quinnathan w. 5 notes
