The Shadow Of His Own Song Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Everyday is too early;
It wakes up before the gleam of your eyes,
And my sad passions subsides:
On my bicycles of so many dreams:
The fish are just fish slipping through the streams;
And the days are not on high:
The high king has said his sad goodbye,
And the territories are awakening up to their
Sorry toothed pups;
And the fireworks shoot and say their goodbyes,
Like the mailmen yawning, yawning up to the skies:
And the cities float, and the cities dream-
I have scars like cadavers floating where they don’t
Belong; and there is no reason by the rhyme,
Like the fabulous skies at picking time:
And this is another sorry wound meant to lift up
To the balloons of charlatans; this is nothing but an airtight
Tomb: floating, floating
And making me feel again as if I didn’t belong,
Even as a mate to his own song,
Or even to the shadow of his own song.