The Doves

White as snow, dropping from the everglades,
Soft leaves, crescent moons within their pores,
Whispering through the wind as it leaks its seeds upon the ground,
Growing, blossoming to floral wonder,
Red as blood, as ink against the paper.

Flame, as hot as a thousand suns,
From fingertips to newborn,
Consuming innocence, wrenched from delicate,
Crumbling to crisp, black wafers,
Like sizzling grains of wood.

And then, above their sight they fly like snow,
From the quiet everglades,
Wrapped in olive branches they soar,
Entangled in a web of dew,
Engraved with the beating heart, rushing like the current.

A feather falls atop a palm,
Who’s lines stretch like winding branches,
Twisted by a constant hate,
That eats and eats away the core,
Below the everglades.

Eyes averted to the vast, cotton blue,
Through the glistening window,
Gleaming like pearls on the sea floor,
The fire is felt as sharp as knives,
Pulsing with regret.

Death is cradled by life,
Held between calloused fingertips,
And from the wind a seed is raised,
Within the gentle earth, soaked in river blood.
Piercing through its veins.

At last, their flight turns to North,
Who’s cold air grazes their backs,
Taunting games of ignorance,
Dropping like snow,
From the gentle everglades.





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