A Dove Flew Past …


Walking down deserted streets
of empty harbored cities,
looking for an answer; where is there one to find?

A sound reaches through the walls
of vacant stained-glass windows–
a sound that shatters the echoes of my mind:

“Hello,”–a voice so soft and gentle.
“Hello, what are you doing here?”

Oh I have searched through books and printed page
to find an answer;
tho’ I found nothing there.

While words fell like rain from printed page in candlelight,
a soft spoken hello came to guide me through the night.

And I have tried to catch the rainbow;
in hopes to find
a pot of riches–knowledge more than gold.

A barren dream is what I found–
a cauldron full of wishes–
a worthless treasure chest of vague desire.

(A dove flew past my window in the morning.
It cooed a song, a certain sad farewell.

And tho’ I felt the sun that warmed the boughs of yellow roses,
in the distance thunder rolled across the land.

The dove became a hawk as the thunder tolled
(and answers haven’t found me yet);
a searing wind that burned the leaves
off every living thing,
but captured only what was lost.

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