The Mourning of Doves

Out my Window
She sings
her morning song.
Of what will be
what is.
What is not.
And
will never be.

ALL four-square years
all tears
and fears.
Shed
like my skin
now.

Yet
she still can sing.
As she flys to him
they have wings.

Unlike I.

You
hated this picture.
These mere magnolia’s,
somehow where a threat.
And they hang now
where I can see
them always.

IMG_0098

I
was never
afraid of you.
I was stronger is all.
I can’t manipulate
nor complicate.

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