Goodnight, love

Little Robbin

12 o'clock, 1976
1 o'clock, 1979
4 o'clock, 1985
A little bird has forgotten to fly.

Time passed by as the clock ticked,
No one cared,
No one knew,
That the little bird is hurting inside.

The little bird had broken its wing,
Now it sat on a long wire,
Stretching wide,
Connecting from what was before and what is now.

It whistled a tune of melody,
Maybe people would like a happy bird,
Maybe when he's happy he'll find someone,
Someone to stick by him.

Maybe if he whistled louder,
Maybe if he filled his voice with love and desire,
Maybe then people would like him,
Like every piece of his flaws and imperfections.

He would stare at the clock,
Stare at his feathers,
Going gray, growing old,
He had thought growing old was growing gold, but he's a stark contrast! The Color of lead!

At night he cried in frustration,
As he saw flocks of birds his kind,
He tried waving one wing to them,
But they looked away from the broken creature.

Soaring through the skies,
They never looked down,
Happy groups,
Happy families.

Of course they'd have no time for him,
He was a broken wood amidst a ship wreck,
No one would pick that up,
No one would love him as well.

Nights and nights he long for the days when he was a child,
When he soared high,
When his little legs dangled above church spires,
Where he'd aim his waste at, for he thought it was cool .

Going to gardens.
Impressing girls,
Courting women to swoon for him,
But now he has nothing left.

His friends used to visit him there,
Ask if he's okay,
But now they've all seemed to move on,
Forgot about him.

People say that once you look into the glass clocks,
You'll see your future,
Who you'll be,
Where you're leading to.

It shows of a dead bird,
Slowly dying,
Aging fast,
Heart beat slowing.

It showed of his old love, Melissa,
A new person now,
With his children,
In a far away land.

They were happy,
Content even without him,
There were no mentions of his name in their home,
And as if he never existed at all.

It broke his heart to think,
That people think he's gone,
That they won't ever return,
For someone like him.

Below him children pointed,
At the little gray bird who looked gray and gloomy,
Said that they want to take him home,
But their parents said it'd bring them misfortune.

They cry over him,
And he felt like someone loved him all over again,
That maybe he was not really a bad one after all,
That maybe he was like the others.

As pretty as those humming birds,
And mighty as those eagles,
That he wasn't a mere robin who sang songs,
That he wasn't a little creature that didn't belong.

But at the end of the day,
He's still Armageddon, the poor bird,
Sometimes eagles would laugh at him,
Sometimes worms would eat his skin.

He was a joke to everyone,
A bird all hairless and scarred,
Broken and fallen and scared of the world,
A disabled soldier fighting a losing battle with both eyes closed.

But he still charged,
He placed his right foot forward,
Fired in with his riffle,
Shooting as much as he can.

But he was the shortest solider in the war of all wars,
Little bird,
Flying by,
All forgotten and torn.