The raven does soar, ever preying upon
Purities wing, perched ever waiting
For that flight on that which is white.

Gliding onwards does its momentum
Carry to the above, but the ash woven
Wings wait to claim feathers weight.

Its talons wish to shred upon those
Untaintedness, but were beckoned
To be as blunt as paper on stone.

There is a moment of singularity,
As merging feathers become one
But then are torn apart in haste

Ever covering shaded moments upon the
The doves release, but feathers loosened  
Forth and purity fell once more free.