ROAMING DOVE

In cloudy shadows of midnight skies,

A roaming dove aimlessly flies,

Though its wings grow weak, yet it tries,

To hold on till the wet land dries.

When will that be? Its faint heart cries,

But the answer’s silence wets its eyes,

Its much weariness produces much sighs,

And it only hopes that tomorrow never dies.

(Dove Speaks)

How did I make it this far into these skies?

How do I reach the heavens before the set sunrise?

For I am much afraid of how the sun’s heat fries,

And gravity calls to me, promising safety, but it lies.

Thinking much about how the victor thrives,

Found truths that cuts more than carving knives,

For the uncertain certainty has a price,

That can’t be paid up to twice or thrice.