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.