Pigeons

Footprints line the snow,

just fallen.

Little voices,

speaking little things.

Are we pigeons to the pigeons?

Repetition

Dark shadow casts a silhouette against itself.

Unlit, dim. A candle burns in the heart of men.

One flame, many parts.

Many different jewels to hold with passionate coldness.

Stolen artifacts, history rolls.

Indifference is Nature’s God.

My God left long ago, with promises of glitter and gelt.

Web.

Network.

Tentacles.

Dispersed throughout, the children play.

The ash beneath their feet is snow, each flake unique.

The same shape repeats.

I see a gate, sometimes, in my dreams.

It remains closed to me.

My God is in his garden.

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