Monochromatic Angels
Pigeons were a mans best friend,
A gift from the sky.
We lured them from fields with large oaks,
To artificial nests to suit our needs.
We spoiled and pampered them,
Using those gifts as carriers.
They'd soar the sky,
And come back to a warm meal.
Claws no longer meant for hunting,
Now meant to hold onto a finger.
We praised our winged angels,
Until we no longer saw them as such.
The monochrome birds would come back to their home,
Only to find no meal with it.
Their homes flew and wrested in the wind,
And desperately they fixed them.
Beaks unable to grasp wood stuck pieces clunkily,
To fix their old homes.
Claws unable to hunt,
Settled to scraps on roads.
Or begging their owners for food,
Once more.
Copyright © Toby Adams | Year Posted 2024
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