It burns.
Life has singed the top of our souls.

What a wasted wasteland
of waist high valleys.
Tasteless are the tempest
of tepid orange sunbeams.

Yet here we are,
You the broken winged dove.
I the child with rats nest hair.
Scream not, -silly -soiled bird
None could hear it but I.

—Lounged against the
shallow shards of
Hurt and Love.

Warily the hand that cradled your gentle head reaches the nape of my neck.
Clawing at unseen seams hidden behind
An oil slick of course hair.
A light emerges and you flutter slightly, feathers of white puff against the warming air.

As the skin gave way the world grew,
Anew-the shadows stretched across
barren disinterested land.
Valleys filled with blue,
and evergreen trees took root!

The sudden winds made your eyes water with the sand and dirt that blew against,
        pushing you against my breast.
As the calm settled again,
the world,
filled with benevolent vibration.

For as the mask was removed
The beauty had grown.
As the world was rejuvenated,
So did the broken, heal.

Oh what a freedom it is!
To let the light shine!
Oh what comfort it is!
To see your shadow is not alone!

So take flight my renewed dove,
Speak not of your sorrows.
Preach of life’s miracles
Sing a song of love.