pidgeon

a test of self recognition.

A pidgeon holed soul,
in the dead of night,
left in the cold
to navigate through the night.

The hand that rocks the dovecotes,
armed to the teeth,
As they glide through at an altitude,
to find a relief.

My family sings from the trees.
Not me amore,
not me.
Some seek (sikh) reason
and some sing (singh) religion,
but the Guru has my back;
in these cuckoo times.
It feeds my beliefs.

I’ll symbolise peace,
Whilst you impeach the president.
I’ll deliver the message,
whilst you question the sentiment.

You are sitting in my spot love,
Rock dove,
derived lies from the questions we look above to find the answers.

Bobbing your head at the answers,
from those chancers in churches,
with sermons of purpose to scratch there backs and the surface.

Empty your pockets and empty your purses.

The worst is yet to come.

The mirror test my reflection.
The depths of inception.

Did I forget to mention the depth of deception,
i’ve drowned in daydreams,
from the gospels of deities;

so the story’s sold,
worldwide;
in different religions.

A thousand omnipresence beings,
but an insistance on only one who’s the holy one.

Unless you hit a hole in one,
lucky it seems,

It simply means,
a few billion ‘believers’
are on the wrong team.

Whatever way the pigeon flies tonight,
by default one of you is wrong, and one of you’s right.

I don’t believe in anything I can’t see in the daylight.