Tears Of The Dove Poem by Thoughts of a Single Man

The wind blows through her
like a cold burst.
Random drops of dotted images
that fall like whipping rain
The memories of what she was
fills her like a breath of empty air.
The past of her sinful desires
that have left their wretched scars
burn her like fire.
The stench of her corruption
bakes hot and raw
like stale bread in her nostrils
as she inhales them
in the fields of her dreams
as they are scattered
like leaves on the autumn breeze.
She releases them,
and they are severed from her now,
for she sees the sun rise in the distance
as the new day forms before her.
She feels the warmth of something new,
something special,
that she believed had died
within her so long ago.
She feels the seeds of feathered hope
grow in the soil of her soul
as puffing gusts
ride these empty plains
leaving the swirling shades
of her colored elation
rendered in it's birthing wake.
In the distance
the ascending shadows
of a congregation of regal birds can be seen
as it's shadow hovers for a moment
against the twinkling backdrop
of a million dancing stars
and the light of a swollen full moon
Their wings flutter in silent
flight as they glide on the breeze
of the sorrow that breathes in her.
There are slivers of light
that find their way
into the darkness that covers her weeping essence.
She can feel their presence,
as they stir within her humbled core.
Withed flowers free themselves
from the confines of the dying soil
and ride these winds as well.
What stories do they tell
as their imprints can be seen
like molded tattoos etched upon her skin.
Read like the written script of her life
as they leave their carved impressions
in the single crystal drop
that slides down her tender cheek.
So much more
than just the simple baggage we carry in us.
Hers are the remnants of the waning storm
that leaves it's scent
on the winds of her sins.
The tears of the doves fall
like wet rain from the night sky
streaming like torn strands of wet hair
as she stands alone as she cries.
Perhaps this will be the day
that she can begin again
and change her course
and find a destiny she desires,
before all her will and strength expires,
and she is left with the final stamp
upon the pages in her book of her life.
For these are the silent dreams
of the broken hearts
who watch every grateful shard of the coming dawn
caught in the fragile moments
of the mourning morning
as another flip of the coin.
A sacred chance can be stolen
from the palm of hope
as the shackles of the past are rendered
and one strides free of their weathered clasps.
Where the fallen angels can repair their wings
and spirits can seize the air
and in a remembrance of what once was
and what can still be.
As their span carries them free
and they sing as they soar.
Perhaps this is the day
she will rise without a tear
falling from her lovely eye
and the doves shall cry no more.
Thoughts of a Single Man 2012 tm