And the wind whispered
And the mountains sang
The pharaoh gave birth
To a beautiful, melted sculpture
Each feather twisted
It’s demented

And I can lose the attitude
And I won’t miss the sun
I’ll give up my education
Does it matter?

Can’t you feel it? It’s grey,
It’s sad
It’s the raindrops
That scurry down your windowpane
You don’t want to count them
Never were good at Calculus

It’s the fog
The kind you can swallow
Fills ever inch of your being
Every pore
Every empty intention
Every thoughtless lie

It’s the phoenix
It’s the bluebird
It’s that stupid parakeet
You didn’t feed it
Didn’t listen
When it told you, “I’m dying, Mom,”

It’s those feathers,
Twisted
Demented
Just a little melted,
It’s that sculpture

And I think,
“What a creation,
That Egyptian Royalty
Can be as useful
As the drunkard down the street.”

And I think,
“What excitement,
That such a work of art
Could be as beautiful
As the ground beneath my feet.”

And I say,
“I don’t know what
Got into me,
But maybe next time,
I’ll sleep in his museum.”