Lone Pigeon 

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 


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