On my way to this place
what were some traits that I missed
recognizing as my own things?
I can't separate my own from your things.
That's always been my great undoing.
I lose control of my self so quickly.
Once looking like a dove, I become
oil slick and grounded in a swamp,
where the flighty thing becomes a being
made up of the rant and the cry and the yell,
*****, not as a state, but as the state of things.
I can't separate my own from your things.
Now I'm alone. I'm alone. And I feel.
This bird's alone for the first time.
On my way to this place, I've hurt
and I've caused big hurt. Now I'm free to see
through these eyes, all alone.
Now I'm alone. I'm alone. And I feel
Like myself. Purified.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
The hour where naught is awake but
Lovers and dreamers
And those deemed too far gone by the rest of us;
To whom we send a wilting flower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
Here I mourn the loss of life
When I took a sterile sword to my own heart
And peered into the gaping, gaping void
Dissolving away the ghost that haunts my hollow tower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
I mourn the incursion that initiated it
Mourn a life I have known so well
As well as a life I think I shall not meet
Tied, side by side, in a waking melancholy sour.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
Doves less mournful than I have passed on to sleep
And he is, as I dream, forming faster each day
Only now, in death, so dear to me
And I reach out, into the darkness of the night
And end the mourning hour.

White dove gone,
Black raven flies.
Takes you under wing and makes you better,
Like mother to son
Or friend that is no longer.

The leaves of a vine, always together
Inseparable, closer than ever
Flowers of memories blooming bright
Lively and joyous
Two little doves taking flight
With the help of each other
They roamed the skies
Snow white cloud's gentle greetings
The leaves of the trees waved back
Deep in the forests, something changed
Tigers growl, birds don't sing
A burning sensation heated the jungle
Spreading to every tree
Burning every vine
The flowers that once bloomed
were now black and withered
Doves of the sky went their separate ways
To save themselves
Without a goodbye or take care
Clouds darkened, hovering emotionlessly
The leaves rustled with annoyance
This is the end