The cuckoo swarms the honey pots
padlocked using a mosaic lock,
it flutters like destiny with the clouds
faster than the flies hovering the swamp
blindsided by the sweet shops an inch away,
housing the colorful lamps and steel plates  ,
from a distance the cycle bells ring
like bells on the clock tower
shimmering under the hot sun ,
the infant is way too messy,
dropping the nutcrackers on the floor
kissed by his feet, he spits words
of strange alphabets hung by a loose coil,
the follicles press the spiraled mat at the door
wetting the smooth passage ahead ,
thrown by the hand-hugged steel ,
near the moss, a cycle stands
pedaled by a sweaty labor
encrusted like turquoise shades on his surface,



The honey *** lies empty ~~~