My feathers may be white, but near the earth
I find my sustenance too blind to flee,
and stain that which was once considered pure,
but now is dull as iron left at sea,
and while my brothers carried messages
to save the lives of good and honored men,
remembered by the ancient passages,
for bravery of olive branch amends,
I carry only beauty on my wings,
a hat-trick made of flowers and deceit,
false promises of bright, eternal things,
while knowing well how Death commands her fleets,
but you are made of Zeus and gospel tomes –
quiet lightning, stronger than belief,
you carry gods with talons made of stone,
demanding faith with every focused beat.
That music drowns the sorrow of my doubt,
and floats on currents warmed from summer sun.
I know its healing well. I fear without,
I may not ever greater things become.
Your wings were built to rise above the air,
your eyes to see the futures you possess,
my flight is flinching when I’m kicked or scared,
to flee a vacant threat, and then to rest.
I wish that it were different, but my love,
we can’t be both the eagle and the dove.