(no subject)
Pigeons flood the park as the sun starts to set. The collective sound of their stomachs growling causes all of the Sunday picnicers to pack up and flee for their homes. I find that i'm just as hungry as the birds. I stand like a scarecrow hoping that they will find some bit of solace resting on my arms, my shoulders, my head. My body grows heavy, while my spirit takes flight. Patiently waiting for something, for anything, but ultimately nothing. Feathers fall like fresh snow.