Sleep, little one with white wind casters,
Fold your wings, calm your impulses as thus,
Float in your serenity, under the pilasters,
Leave all reality behind; evil and the muss.
Exhausted pigeon with indelible commotion,
You shall never sob again in this brutal space,
You shall never again feel a gloomy emotion,
All will be gone but heavenly restful grace.
On your wing, I see dew forming a home,
For the petite dust and surface it covers,
And a star is calling it, tickling its dome,
They gyrate together, as newly-wed lovers.
Moonlight pats on the your velvet wings,
Comforting a troubled despondent soul,
With its golden rays and strings it sings,
an assuring lullaby; illuminating a dark hole.
If only dew of abnormal enormity saved -
Rescued you from filthy descendant creatures.
If only it was your haven from the depraved,
But mercy is aberrant; even in the preachers.
Little drained pigeon escaped from atrocity,
Cherry red blood glazes its delicate feathers,
And ash on white canvases unmasks animosity,
With them they tried to restrain amity; tethers.
In the future of mine, I see an afternoon,
Where the sky, the ocean collide in despair,
And twirl in a round dance, creating a festoon,
For the Earth to wear, on its weedy green hair.
A crucifixion it is, for the earth and the moon.
And in awe, I sat on dusty sagged car to stare,
as the blues clogged time in eternal croon,
And cracked the order, and humanity’s prayer.
Dear little pigeon, you shall never witness this,
This; the production of corruption conceived,
And this blade petting your neck, is my final bliss,
As promised: heavenly restful grace is received.