these invisible flying creatures are gunned down

we as a healthy communion between a man and a woman

is the illusion created by god and other religions,

by your father and mother and the flying white pigeons

that shitted on your jacket, over the years.

you stand like a statue waiting for we but the shit of a pigeon is not a bringer of luck

and your lack of perspective gets you stuck in bus stations, with your beer and your fear

of missing the bus.

you grope for physical interaction in the darkness of pubs

flirting with invisible faces, with vodka and wine.

unhealed scars opened by the one way sign

that makes you stray on the city’s streets, looking for that we

which hides between the sheets of couples and drinks the morning coffee

and dances, and sings

and fucks, and smokes.

that we, that lights candles in the coziness of bedrooms

and drinks the red wine.

your perception is wasted as well as you are

and far is your answer up in the sky like a flying white pigeon

released from the cage.

we dies in the end

killed by someone like me.