"White Dove"

She’s the most beautiful thing i’ve never seen.
Y’all, it’s like a midnight summers dream, relaying time and time over with American indie movies.
See, she speaks to me.
From that tree in my yard.
The one white dove.
That I can’t seem to reach from the window in my room in this insane asylum.
She teases me.
With hints and notes, and winks every now and then.
Have you ever watched a dove resurrect from it’s own bleeding heart?
She sits, in that tree.
Every night, and dies.
Disappears out of sight.
And out of existence.
I watch angels cry when she sheds her feathers.
Cupping them in their hands and making dream catchers to hang from their halos.
This is the bird that passion is made from.
I’ve been trying to catch her for a while.
But for now, all I can do is watch as her heart beats, for something outside of my veins.
And in the morning, I see her heart peel back as a ray of light writhes and claws from it.
The sticks mold and mesh like bones.
Leaves die, and fade white, pasting her skin like feathers.
The most amazing sight anyone will see outside of, nothing.
Like the Niagra Falls pouring into the Grand Canyon, as God paints the Northern Lights into the cusp of the tide.
I sit, and watch, as her heart beats.
Her wings, beat, to the sound of another force that isn’t me.
I watch, as the tips of her wings cursive his name into the wind.
I’ve seen orange groves melt like popsicles.
I’ve seen homeless turn into concrete on bus stops.
And some call me crazy, but I’ve even see the giant’s face in a forest.
But nothing compares to watching a dove die and resurrect from it’s own heart.
Give me but two minutes of your time and I will show you the universe, packed into a breathing source.
Possessed by love.
Cremated over and over with it’s own dwelling desire for someone, that isn’t me.
I watch her practice for the day him and her meet.
All I do is sit, and cry.
Wishing that it was me she shed life for.
But it’s not.
I just sit in my room in this insane asylum and draw her in my notebook.
I draw her with words.
I draw her, with every beating beat, and every breathing breath.
Every moment, every day, every waking moment, she dwells...in that tree.
Taunting me.
Whispering to me through the broken braile of the wind.
Telling me stories of how he’ll float in on the wind one day.
How he’s what she needs to keep living.
And I just cry inside.
I say i’m happy for her.
I tell her that’s all I want, is for her to be happy.
But we all know, that all we want is for them to be happy, with us.
With me.
Please, wake up every morning for me.
Die for me.
Resurrect for me.
I’m the one who cares.
The one who’s been here.
Watching you die and resurrect every day.
Who is he to take that dove, the dove i’ve grown around, away from my window.
Have y’all ever watched a dove die and resurrect from it’s own beating heart?!
Most tell me I haven’t.
They say i’ve just been sitting in my room, at home.
They shake me out of it.
And tell me i’ve just been screaming “Why won’t you love me?!” over and over and over again.
I tell them “We need to go back to the asylum, my dove is waiting for me!!!”
They say there is no asylum, that i’ve just been sitting here, writing love letters, and folding them into paper doves.

Reviews

[Poetic Beauty]

This poem is beautifully descriptive. It reads like a great story being told. the flow is a little hard to follow but with the beauty of this piece it isn't important. I love the description of the dove. Amazing write.

[Jennifer Pennington]

This gave me goosebumps. Oh my God you are a wonderful poet.