Black Marks on the Dove
I go to walk out of time
alleys and roads chime
songs of trespass
singeing the night
gloved with leather's husk
oil and musk
I stealthily open windows
letting in the stale paroxysm
of smell of the past
inhale the song of repast
the wind blows through memories
cascading waterfalls
as I take pen to dust
writing is a must
in gruel
as war bombs and scarecrows
shake us of our wits.
God o plenty
you are there
to soothe with balm
I can cite the beggar's alms.
As instance of benighted love
even as I spot black marks
on the dove.
Deux pigeons aux ailes déployées (Two Doves with Wings Spread) -- Pablo Picasso
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