Before we fly,
we must fall,
but how many times
must we fail
to finish our fables
Only fools make
the same mistake
many times over
For is not repetition
the meaning of madness?
Pigeons perhaps,

These days, I find myself
a fool. Beckon call.
Lamb to the slaughter
Rush in with only intent
and memories meant
to be made, malnourished
into craven little things
Pigeons perhaps,

Dirty doves, flocking
together after a fall
Rising in requiem as
feathered failures
fanning each other’s
futures like a fire inflamed

Pigeons perhaps,