Strange Sign At the Outskirts to Paradise

In an area of high winds

and strong convictions, I have

lived among the ever-changing crowd

that is always the same.

 

I must have died overnight,

and now my wings are

flapping in my own face.

 

I used to be an owl,

a night owl, to be sure. But I also 

used to be an eagle, or a hawk.

 

Now I am more of an old pigeon,

shuffling along the pavement.

I prefer to walk if I can,

or hobble if I must.

 

And I myself am not the least

of my worries, either,

because I used to be

an angel, as well.

But now?

Not so much.

 

On the chart of universal

unbelievability this

takes the cake.

And if God won't have me,

I don't know who

will.