Soliloquy

Once upon a time, not too long ago,

I had a small pet pigeon- he was a little fat, though.

He used to come through my window sill, sit on its perch,

Every day he’d be there, you didn’t have to search!

He spoke all day of its deeds from the past,

Things which I thought I did understand, however fast.

All my time I spent looking forward for his arrival,

To me,  he’d become what they call, ‘a vital for survival.’

And my pigeon spoke of where he came from,

What he did when he were free from flying aplomb.

He’d been born in Iceland, grew up in Egypt,

All his stories seemed true, never seemed flipped.

He told me of how in Syria, he had found a friend,

One who taught him of how life couldn’t ever end.

He grew up close to his friend but his call to fly the world came,

And he left behind his friend and his stories, forgot what they became.

Among all his story-telling, a day came when my dad

Tried to look beyond my pigeon and when he had,

Suggested to put a shed upon the window sill,

I looked at the pigeon with unease of will.

I questioned insensitivity, put forth queries,

But my old man brushed it off into the breeze.

Human was senseless, he knew not to be brave,

All his money would come haunting back to his grave.

So my dad put up the shed and my pigeon-friend didn’t cry,

All he did was look forward to the gift of the future and fly.

He said goodbye and left me weeping in the bitter frost,

Across the sky, and in the distant melee, he was lost.