doves
nest on dirty ground
in
the w h i t e of day they lounge
they're
'pure' and 'perfection' to the last
and
to keep up image their sorrows away are cast
lies
and trampled hearts give way to the massacre
their
victims are like bait and lure
and
in this mirror of p e r f e c t i o n
we
see the light the doves have shunned
(but
it's a secret, not to be told
a
heartless whisper kept in the cold)
like
moon on sun is Winter
like
water on fire is bitter
the
"white ones" are naught much more
than
naughty children who tore out their own cores
in
hopes that judgment would pass them by
for
without souls they cannot fly