When Doves Cry

When doves cry, it makes my blood boil. I grit my teeth in rage and spit in deaths face. Crocodile tears from the white pigeon that flies through the ashes of the hand who guided the blade that nearly killed me. I have carefully practiced mourning this death before. I have played this very scene in my head for years on moonlit paths when I escaped your wrath, when I still believed I would crave you. I am still waiting for an apology from the unrepentant corpse. I will shed no tears for you. I swear to you I will not grieve this loss. I will charge through your vacant house as your ashes dust a tree in the desert - you are nothing more than the meaningless sand that blows into my eyes. I will rip out your floor boards and throw away everything that would ever remind me of you. You have been dead to me for a long time but only when the dove cries, I will know It's finally my turn to destroy.