Art, ascension, change, Connection, Poetry

PIGEON.

The pigeon
He flies, he flies.
He walks, he walks.
Head bobbing back and forth.
Bobbing back and forth.
He squeals, he shrines.
Birthing blue and yellow lines.
In those tails to tell.
Or those tales to ten.
He talks to squawk.
On a broken bork.
No lies to tell.
I wonder.
Do pigeons smell.

Poem and art – Helen Rebecca Hart.

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