I've never felt the love of doves
flying way in dozens through droves;
feeling the highs and even the lows
in wind scarred clouds, superimposed.
So delicate, fragile, snowflake in mouth,
dont melt I'd belt so deep in bed;
pulling from feathers with a sleeping beak,
clipped and whipped, the sound of lashing on my back.
Feeling the dread in drowning drought
that runs off the page of the solar systems music sheets,
to the ground that flickers to space,
a river to a birds secret hideout.