The grown Dove searches for mud

The grown Dove searches for mud to disparage its mother who granted them this pure white. Lord endow me with divine purpose, help dry this dirt on the earth a brown ocean, swelling, percolating. A window pane snaps from the pressure I remember the day I was born. I weep, I weep, I weep. A bird scurries ‘round my neck it is a little pigeon it will serve no purpose; it suffers a century of burden, the weight of its child. It weeps, it weeps, it weeps. it has bore too many Beautiful, fecund, yet meaningless; its children will be born in mud.