The dove has flown away into whiteness, The doe filled with an unborn verse. Live, little poem- yet to be written- And the words gnaw away like a dark wolf.
The eye of the world is on you, The ink is drowning on my page. The pearl of thought escaping My oblivion born into a dark innocence.
Little poem yet to born Up from the nightingale's journey Into a subtle abundance, Like an invasion of white lilies.
From my graveyard of angelic thoughts, Flowing like a blind star, The creature that is born Like the Apple untouched in Eden.