The Mourning Dove

There is a mourning dove I've come to know.

Not beautiful, but pretty was she.

An unassuming visage of purity.

Innocence at her expense

Was a small flaw that brought her low.

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You see, behind the eyes of every dove

Is something lying deep underneath,

An unassuming visage of quiet grief.

Softly blown away from thought,

Never noticed by those that should've.

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Swiftly she soared in the silent sky

Yearning to touch the luminaries,

Instead to be caught by her adversaries,

Unknown to others watching.

Her vision blurred; she flew too high.

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Instantly, her heart began changing.

Stiff and cold, black with tints of crimson

Outward spread, like water with poison.

Heart frozen, feathers blackened.

Arose from the embers, burning wings.

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There is a mourning dove I used to know.

A hopeful heart of gold she possessed,

Touched by a tragedy's caress.

If only she'd known the consequence,

For now that dove is just a crow.