4 AM Poetry

Stolen Birds


In the small, restive hours of the night
Those early birds are sonorous, they set the soul right.
Nightly do they chirp to their heart's content
So that wistfully, one night, to my window I went
And opened my window to the inky night and no moon
And alas, no birds in sight to put to that tune.


That was the most solemn sight I ever caught
Or lack thereof, for the picture of birds that I sought
Was missing. Having scanned, I capitulated, foolishly pained
That the cover of night could steal the sight I should have obtained.
From thereon, I covet to drain the night of its ink
And use it to pen these thoughts, and not rest a wink.


How crude to shield the early birds from my eyes
Without them my nightly serenity dies
And the birdsong evokes a gay feeling no more

It is ugly and coarse squawks seeking death, pain and war.

Last night, I could not sleep. What I could do was hear the birds really going for it very loudly, very clearly. It was pretty to hear so you can imagine my frustration when I could not see the little bastards buggers birdies. I felt rather morose about it actually, like something sweet had suddenly been snatched from this earth. Hmm.