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There is a plight of ambience 

so serene, so somber, and an apathy of faith

in the canvas the pigeons are brewing

their nonchalant views in. 

A hollow siren of broken cages

all discrete and echoing of chambers--

of cups broken and coffee spilled. 

What would the barbaric man think of you master?

A puppet disguised as a puppeteer,

or a silent whimperer too cruel,

too wondrous, too white 

to be a connoisseur 

of a life well lived,

in a city of capes and mystic drapes? 

The buildings decorated in blue

Christmas lights showering meaning to existence--

so surreal it is,

and so cautious,

so provocative. 

How lifeless the mannequins 

disguised as humans, 

crowd the cities and streets,

with roles of aversion giving a life lesson 

of empathy. 

Can you see the violence that exists

in the empty halls of the room

filled with the void of malevolent peace, 

where a circuit of archived destinies

and epiphanies

create a filthy love

for systems non-existent? 

The windows of cars painted black,

the homes with basements of agony,

and yet your war screams of a life well lived, 

a fight well fought,

and while you stay alive, 

a ticket well bought. 

I check those blue lights,

luminous --

but not shiny, 

that lights the magical tribe 

that rules humanity

to always be on parole.

My dear,

couldn't you have chosen differently?