There is no god speaking to me right now
I am left here hanging in fences hidden beneath the lights.
I smell my burnt wings, see my crushed belief in disbelief,
As I fail to learn the difference between hope and a death-trap.
My remains are swept off every morning with minimum wage,
Thousands of me, born again anonymous transforming till death.
My flight crashes in blood splatters in your hands in seconds,
in deadly applause that my vocal orchestra draws,
which counts as pleasure of killing (time) for some
or lunch for the slimy creatures in skilful play of curly tongues.
On rare occasions though our unison of revenge
permits a few chosen to strike back,
to carry on our striped wings a thousand year old message,
bites of shiver and a sudden collapse.
The years of observations of cycles of cautions, precautions say
To think of an escape would be just another disappointment.
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