They wring you out, a washcloth

Laden with the stuff of jokes and jests,

And you watch each drop,

Each crystalline sphere of water,

Each witticism,

Slowly slide through your threadbare folds

Jabbing cruelly at your esteem.

But a washcloth is only a flat, drab expanse

Of gray

Which possesses no self-respect,

And when you are dry

When no more water wets the chortling maws

Of the thirsty beasts of popularity which they seek

To appease,

They cast you away

And you flap mournfully through the humid air

Splashing into a puddle of murky water on

The bathroom floor.

Moisture seeps slowly into your threads,

Your veins,

And your self-esteem raises its haggard head hopefully,

Languishing timidly in the brief respite before they come again.

----

They cast you into the air

Hazy with delicate, curling clouds of blood

And you flap your wings in terror

Screams of wounded men piercing your heart.

Frantically you race over clamoring enemy ranks

Bullets clipping your feathers

Deafening booms of artillery assailing

Your already erratic, feverish heartbeat.

When at last you descend among

Rifle-wielding soldiers

Who remove the precious message you have flown

Over war-torn plains,

The adrenaline pools at your feet, mixing with the blood

Streaming in rivulets down your body.

You are exhausted

Fatigue clawing at the edges of your consciousness

But once more into the air you are cast

Once more you travel over fields tainted with Death

Squawking your anguish to the blood-speckled clouds.

You are a lonely war pigeon bearing the bloody badge

Of America

A weary runner chained to the sweat-flooded red track

Who is clothed in the vibrant but sinister logos of pompous companies

Who is tethered and leashed to the uncompassionate, raucous crowds

A tool for war

A tool for pleasure

Always a tool.

A bullet punches through your tattered feathers,

Caresses your terrified heart,

And you silently plummet to the ground

Contorted and lifeless,

Death finally blessing your fear-painted plumage.

They are oblivious to your passing

For you were but a pigeon

An instrument to serve humanity that is

Easily replaced.

----

They are friends.

A word that is bitter

With betrayal.