Today I wrote a pathetic poem again,
With the pencil of soul that I had sharpened nights and days before,
I then tied it to an old, weak pigeon's feet,
To be sent out to unaddressed land—
Carrying my sorrow and gloom along.

I've always been a hopeless soul,
Dreaming about peace of heart-
Which seems to only exist 6 feet under.

Now I'm waiting by my window again,
Wishing for the pigeon to return,
With a poem tied to its feet,
With the voice of the Reaper,
Coming for me, here at last.

I.R.