The Mourning of Doves

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

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

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

Unlike I.

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


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


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