I make my way through the hollow street. Everyone awake but me. Wine in my right wing, annihilation in the other.
I drink, until the dreariness drownes my flight. I drink. Drink enough to make the joy embrace my sight.
The streets feel kind as I press my tumbling feet against the ground. At once it’s just me.
Me and the earth, surrounded by the bitter sweet breeze of winter mornings, rushing through my feathers.
As I walk through the hollow streets, I see a pigeon lying on the floor. Her wings spread open as if it were an angel, silhouetted on the ground.
I contemplate it- dead. No angel. No life. No heaven. Just my feathers blending into the ground.
Alien to my sleep I gaze at my corpse; my soul wedded to the wind, rising above a frozen body I no longer recognise as mine.
I exhale myself into the breath of the air. Into the breath of our sulphurous world. I’m free.
I am dead.
P.S sorry for the being cliché