Pigeons

Why do we all do 

so many things that make us 

unhappy?

What in our bones

and our souls

says,

"yes, please,

be miserable. 

It is better this way."?

Oh, this unbearable

aching we all feel,

in some sadness ascribed to us

as mankind,

some unending flame 

in our bellies

which roils us around

and causes us such torment?

The condition of man

is woeful, often.

And I do not 

bear understanding,

I cannot feign 

content

under such a thing

as our own 

distress, 

our own unlawful 

misery

as humanity.

We cannot fix ourselves

of a condition 

we have not created for ourselves,

but has been thrown upon 

us as a cosmic reflection,

perhaps it is a glimpse of fate,

but it may be our

limited capacity to 

live, or to love,

or to understand

and become our full likenesses.

What resting in us, heavy

as lead,  numerous as bricks

in a cathedral, has caused such 

a feeling we cannot expel 

neither alone or with

a unity eternally strong?

For regardless

of love, of life,

of who we are,

there is a lingering

of bittersweet.

A melancholy so unbecoming

of our undeniable humanity.

A sadness that has steeped

for too long.