When Doves Cry

There is a sadness in the heart of peace An emptiness of bloodless, toneless hearts Left stagnant in the aftermath of hope Yet still we wave our tattered silent flags. A rustle in the garden bids us – still! Though greyish peace resides upon the soil Through which the budding saplings dare to peek To glimpse the golden hope of daybreaks dream. A dove, eternal symbol of our hearts, Encrusted in detritus of our souls Lays motionless surrounded by both flags Consumed by demons choking on its truth For symbols are the bane of mortal men The sound of crying doves, our greatest sin.