Moon Logic & Other Bad Habits

I had tea with the universe late last night,

it said, “Kid, your chaos is looking alright.”

So I tightened my shoelace of questionable fate,

and strolled past tomorrow — already running late.

A pigeon in glasses whispered, “Time is a trick,”

then lectured a lamppost on not glowing too quick.

I nodded politely; I love bird intellect,

even when none of their facts reconnect.

My shadow was drunk and confessed it was bored,

said it wanted a raise or at least an award.

I told it to chill, take a nap, take a breath—

it fainted dramatically, playing dead (not death).

A fortune cookie warned me, “Don’t follow the rules,”

but I dropped it in tea because I’m nobody’s fool.

Besides, every omen is drenched in cliché,

so I rinse mine with humor and call it gourmet.

Then the moon slid down softly to straighten my crown,

said, “Your glow’s gotten crooked from carrying doubt around.”

So I laughed till it echoed in rooftops and bone—

funny how courage returns when you’re left alone.

And the moral (disguised like a thrift-store coat):

Life’s a storm, yes—but you still stay afloat

by dancing with nonsense, by loving the weird,

by rhyming through moments that once felt feared.

So trust every odd thing that knocks at your door—

the cosmos speaks riddles

so we listen

more.