Shoot the hands that carry our message
Which read the bloodshed of our fallen
O how the doves bathe in the ink of war and arise anew with purpose
The heroes of the sky hand in their limbs in return for the glory that bursts from the battlefield
Your delicate feathers must blacken at the tips before you’re recognized as the messenger
O winged angel, Fly away, Fly away
Look upon the world of destruction
And be lucky to serve on the winning team
O forgotten heroes, claim your medal from the ashes of the fire and lay there to rest
To grow fat by chipping away at scraps till your stature is reborn
May they shoo away your dignity from the homes that wrote our letters
And how they shed hollow tears when they finally meet your eyes
Their pride lives forever in the hearts of lost fighters
O glorious phoenix, hold your ribbon tight, when you cross the other side

Three dead pigeons came to mourn
they hung around from dusk till dawn
and knowing I was gravely ill
stayed perched upon my window sill
then when it looked like I might stay
they clicked their beaks and flew away

‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.

A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.

I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.

The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,

A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.

MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.

I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.

I am left
To react.

React to what?
React to wee?            React,
to relationships,        React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.


Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.

The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.

There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.

'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.

they’re in a place of lost hopes,
silent drums on weekday vacation,
in rooms full to the brim,
oozing tar,
nightmares on sunny days.

palms mismatched like large and small.
we breathe on different intervals,
you have never seen yourself like me.
i don’t like what i see.