The Reincarnation of a Wax Winged Bird.

The Reincarnation of a Wax-Winged Bird

Shakalini Marsini, not his real name,
Flew down from the ceiling,
Lookin for a bone to pick
But they were all taken.
What was left was only dust,
Not enough to mix with water
and make a bust,
Of himself to put on the shelf.
Placed next to some mystery novels
โ€œHow to Cook with 3 in 1 Oilโ€
And the โ€œIdiots Guide to Plumbing,โ€
In the facade of a library, in hell.
Books under glass,
Otherwise theyโ€™d burn.
He was slumming anyway,
Not in his best blouse,
Quiet as a mouse.
It rhymed fine in time,
And that was all he could say about it.
When it was all said and done,
His picayune sidetracked thoughts
All in a row,
For the side-show,
Wild nuts and bolts,
Gilded mercenaries.
He needed one to take him back across
the River
Once he had delivered
The message to some mythological โ€ฆ
โ€ฆMythโ€ฆ
of a female.
Fables of stories,
Allegories,
flurries-
Snow Curry, Frankenstein
And Fred McMurry –
-Those three things-
hood ornaments- car-,
wouldnโ€™t float as good
as a pontoon boat.
The River of Styx
was no laughing matter.
Ordinarily.
Not that this was any such thing.
And since he couldnโ€™t find one,
a raft worthy,
heโ€™d have to fry.
Though neither method was preferred
It still beat the hell out of falling,
Or swimming.
His wings needed trimming,
But who had time to get to the barber anymore?
So, he flapped them, hard,
Loose feathers in flight,
Could mess withโ€ฆ
wellโ€ฆeverythingโ€ฆ
Never mind that.
He didnโ€™t want to excite the crowd below,
A shadow, a bird, a flying cow they once said,
it was hard for them to make him out
through the smoke.
Better to get in,
get out,
drop off the map to her,
return to the living.
No matter how much he longed to leave
Some other reminder for her
Of himself
Of hope.