They could flap their wings,
and fly south when it's cold.
Petty lives with petty plans,
raise young, get old.
They don't have faraway dreams,
they don't know, they aren't told.
Only in the marketplace of higher conscious,
are these unsettling ideas sold.
I'm a consumer of dreams,
I need dreams to stay alive.
I need dreams to wake up the rebel in me,
Dreams that rattle and shake me up,
Dreams I can gulp with a bottle of beer,
Dreams that I can sip from a tea cup.
Oh poor pigeons!
I gaze them one more time ,
from my balcony up above,
then back to room inside I crawl,
and stare at the calendar hung on the wall.
I start to tremble, I start to fear,
wonder why it never hit me before,
I feel a chill from head to the toe.
The calendar as I realize,
was from five years ago.
I feel the sadness, I feel the void.
I miss the wings that I never had.
My dreams never took me south,
or north, east or west
Pigeonhole of desires is what I built,
and safely locked myself to rest.
Rather than fathom the cold sky,
I warmed my cozy nest.
For five years and all my life,
I've been a pigeon without wings,
I've been a pigeon full of empty dreams,
