Dove
Dove
Remembering what was,
in the hope of could be.
The sword of my being
rises up within the wake of destruction.
No more lead by heart. No more cluttered mind.
Only truth, light
and now belief.
A soiled dove.
Broken within brokenness.
Has sought, with broken wing.
Only to learn to guard, to learn to be.
To fly within darkness.
Tainted-ness
remains to haunt.
Seeds of disarray. Huddled now, awaiting light,
below the blistering winds and repetitive gavels.
No two are alike, they say.
Mating for life within a devotion unknown to man.
Yet, radiant, none the less.
Remembering what was,
hoping for could be.
Willow
Carla Cy Thurston
April 15, 2020
Contest 10-13-20
Copyright © Carla Cy Thurston | Year Posted 2020
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