Cuckoo

The pendulum of my life has very widely swung.
Hanging as it does from it’s rocking rickety rung.

I am the weight that wears on it; without much control.
E’er near, or having just left, the edges of the whole.

Ne’er bored because the swing just flies on past the center.
Always slightly vexed; half the route is cruel as winter!

Worry melts when swinging back; past center on to fun.
My polar existence, sometimes, makes me want to run.

Though I can’t, I hang reversed; feet bound o’er rusty hinge.
From there I’m wound from day to night, ever towards the fringe.

I do admit, I get a steady chance at singing.
On the hour & fifteens, my song you can hear ringing.