I brought a pigeon home today.
Maybe she can be friends with my dove,
If she ever meets him.
I think she wants something,
She's watching me right now.
I can't tell what she's thinking,
But with a spirit so free,
And wings to take her wherever,
I'm betting her thoughts are quite free too.

Softly but gracely he fell.
Out of the skies as dark as it's deep.
In an awe I do dwell.
Nearly doubting if I were asleep.

In a wonderful place with a beautiful scene.
He stands tall yet unharmed still standing.
From the lengths he had come, tired he leaned.
And no proof of such a brutal landing.

His wings are dusty and the feathers fell off.
He did not at all seem weary or confused.
As if falling so high isn't that rough.
As if he was but merely amused.

He stands there proud and aloof.
Showing us humans how idiotic we seem.
He who knows all, brings us proof.
That he is almighty, soaring the skies like a dream.

And as he stands and walks on by.
While I leer him with open arms.
He does not budge and points to the sky.
Up he goes soaring over the farms.

With a gleam of the morning sun on his back.
His feathers most reflective over the cloud.
The white dove easly watches me over his neck.
While lifting of back on to the south.

you grip the dove too tightly.
it comes apart in your hands,
white, pink, glistening, slippery.

we awake
in the burning midnight,
dionysian noise filling
the moonless sky.

she takes my hand
as we become one,
fill each other,
more than whole,
a pleasure synergised
through friction,

then
absence.

we awake
by an ocean of blood,
a crimson sky with no stars.

it has been thought
that luna longs for terra,
trapped in unconditional distance,
drifting further and further,
soon to be lost in the endless dark.

endless peace? love eternal?
or an obsolescent dream?
could a dove still fly without wings?

———"that familiar boiling yolk of a sunrise—comas richer than russian dark chocolate— & saturn smoking a cigar while playing chess with gravity... i have been here before."

ocean dove, pardon my excuses for not writing as of late; been busy fulfilling a prophecy that can't even look me in the eye and ask me to change.  in the june wreckage of two thousand and sixteen;  i retired my tongue with the dormant volcanoes  before the world could end in my mouth.  and yet my poetry informs me that there are some wounds too sophisticated to even flower into scars—kind of like how my words will never feel like honey again, (but vinegar nonetheless.)

how cruel of me it was; to condemn you to a death without one final cigarette slow dancing with your lungs.  i miss the shadows of you most: the belt of venus caged like a wild animal in your eyes, your rusty guitar silky voice dripping off the haunted house we called home, countless a.m. drives kicking up filthy moonlight in the rearview mirror, but most of all—the way you said 'i love you' like it was nothing dressed up in something fashionable.

it is now the june of two thousand and nineteen. this wreckage sat on a throne and filled into the moon's shoes. a crown crawled it's way home to my head and kissed me with knowledge drenched in your name.  this queen started from lesson no. 1: broken instruments, will preach broken sounds—  and how lovely it has been, planting a world war in my soul only to raise eden in it's stead.  i will miss your company, but your ghost is no longer a requirement for me to be complete.

i have learned to stop loving falsehoods.  i have learned to start loving the leftovers of who i am becoming.  we would have been star crossed lovers had you not tried to swallow that bottle of pills that famous night where we fought like madonnas— but it looks like you got to death's fortune cookie before i did.

"and one day, you will have lived long enough to taste your grief turn bittersweet too"———