The Pink Cot

Always arriving at every word ever spoken
Bambi and the pink cot stand as a testimony.
The testimony to long summer Sundys.
Filled with the cries of cicadas, 
cicadas and the wrath of whiskey and pain. 
Hush now my child; no one is coming.
Your pastel prison of broken and futile dreams
will not arrest this brutal hurricane.
Raging through the dusty African Savannah. 
You, the symbol of a last hope destroyed. 
A creature never meant to be this.
Cicada sirens, the palpitating heartbeat,
echoing grief for what is invariably lost.
You, predestined to wander the earth,
tearing at the fabric of life. 
Oh, misplaced soul always arriving, 
but not belonging, somewhere.