The Pigeon

Black rolling pins

Warping away

The semblances 

Of life.

Feathers choke

The bitumen.

Beasts of metal

Strip the eyes 

Of the gaze.

Pull away

Unaware.

A puddle of 

Crumpled bone.

Wrinkled feather.

Unregarded.

Ironed, pressed,

Now a coarse,

Sun-hardened shirt

Worn by the bitumen.

-By Jelly Pom

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