When he was born, the clouds that soared
They fell to watch him sing.
But when they found him
All he did was whimper, scratch, and screech
So they returned to the their sky
A place of all our dreams
There they spent their mighty tears
To flood the world with peasant’s sorrow.
He woke up when the broken sounds no longer lingered
And the clouds had disappeared; gone into the wind.
He looked in the mirror
He started in fear
A feather sprouted out.
It was like the wing of a raven
Sewn to his skin.
A monster’s whisper on his back.
He yanked
He pulled
He cried sweet words.
Bounced it to and fro.
He ran from boys who called him wicked
Hiding like a bat
A rabbit chased back into its hat.
But wistful thinking went so far
He could never hide all of that
They’d read the secrets
He’d buried alive
And somehow they were breathing.
His hair it glowed
A color worthy of a king
Or so said all those fable
Like stones that had stolen bits of porch light.
It could turn heads from many tables.
He cut it with scissors
It fell to the floor
Like leaves in autumn and winter.
But he couldn’t sprint, cower, falter.
It grew back
Like weeds that drown the flowers.
Then his wings blossomed to their full length
And he cut holes in his shirt.
They sprouted like little trees
And he heard all the screams
They were ubiquitous
They bombed his little aplomb
Freak
I’m a freak.
The Angel Boy he called the clouds and they sang with glee
The sun came out
Its pout swiftly ended.
That was the day he learned to fly.
When he met the sky halfway
It welcomed him with open arms.
There, my son.
There you are.