The clouds have stained my sky deep gray,
You set them down yourself,
You swore you'd be my sun again,
Though your heat stings more like Hell,
This Mourning Dove shall sing no more
In flight do I depart,
And in the scorched twine of my nest
I leave with you my heart.
If patience be my virtue then I have much to repent,
I cannot wait for you, my Muse, to breathe in me your scent,
I must now join the vagrant fool who left his home and went,
This Mourning Dove shall sing no more
Till Amity is met.
I trade you, then, my heartbeat sound for the dust that paints the wind,
For lo here comes a fellow traveler denying he has sinned,
He wagers on the wayside,
With horns as green as mint
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection
PoetryA simple collection of my poetry, some gathered from old notebooks and some bespoke writings for this collection. There is something of a narrative, loosely speaking, that could be constructed here, with recurring mentions of places and unnamed cha...
