2 new poems by David Ralph Lewis : an untitled piece & ‘The early bird catches the worm’

              untitled piece

                The universe manifests itself in a particular
		arrangement of atoms for a time and decides
		to write these lines on a different section
		of the universe, with a fountain pen that is
		also a part of itself. From this perspective,
		the universe considers itself separate from
		the stars, the spinning galaxies, drifting
		nebula, thinks itself a sealed and unique
		world. Sighing, the universe walks to a window,
		sees its reflection in the clouds, mutating,
		never still and breathes in a surge of sadness.

		The universe knows the reasons for this feeling
		but in this energy configuration that knowledge
		is stored within a locked room, down a forgotten
		corridor, the key destroyed by rust and rot.

		The universe understands without really knowing
		that it is just a hum and given some time
		the bass note will change in pitch, just as 
		these words will vibrate to a different tune
		when introduced to a singing, dancing flame.

               The early bird catches the worm
 
		from a chain coffee shop, is rude
		and dismissive to the barista
		pecks down the wriggling body
		and a double espresso before 
		zipping off to a day of meetings
		and spreadsheets. The early bird
		meets all their deadlines, demands
		100 percent attendance at every meeting
		they organise, no excuses, blocks off
		time in a colour-coded, neat, hand-drawn
		calendar that they make every Sunday
		night in preparation for the week ahead.
		
		If colleagues were asked to describe
		the early bird, they would use the words
		'brusque' or 'serious' or 'difficult to get on with'.
		They do not hear how fast the early bird's
		heart is beating, do not see how it swivels 
		its head all day to see what everyone else
		is doing. The early bird puts in long hours
		is the first one into the office, the last
		one to leave. Exhaustion always wins though,

		so the early bird flies under amber 
		street lights, guided in the dark  by instinct,
		past lurid billboards and lairy groups
		of men in ties, back to it's nest,
		empty, wedged in a tree branch in 
		the expensive part of the city. It settles
		itself down into the twigs and newspaper
		shavings and tries to block out all 
		the emptiness around it, wonders
		what would happen if it just dropped
		and didn't even try to open it's wings

		before singing itself to sleep with songs
		its mother taught it long ago, on another 
		continent as its chest flutters
		too fast
		too loud.


Bio: 
David Ralph Lewis (www.davidralphlewis.co.uk) is a poet based in Bristol, UK who has been published in Marble Poetry Magazine, Nine Muses Poetry and Neon Magazine. He has two pamphlets, Our Voices in the Chaos published by Selcouth Station and Refraction. He enjoys dancing badly at gigs and attempting to grow vegetables

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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