Why does the little dove stare at the ceiling with love of blankness feeling?
It leaves thoughts reeling, flying above and chirping out in love of the lack thereof of anything appealing.
In a gilded cage it lies, one of its own design, with little gage of reality, time starts to decline. Little sage flowers decorate its home, glinting with wine and gold.
Oh, little dove of mine, so pure and fine, why do you bleed gold, when all is in line? All your tears hold are a divine and bold river, not unlike mine own. I watch as your opulent feathers shiver.
YOU ARE READING
poems i came up with at 3 am
Poetrybit of a dark/random poetry dump, might be a bit intense and nonsensical at times,
