Mourning Dove (a poem)
I can sing the mourning dove's song,
Say you are right, when you're not,
I play pretend well, pursuit of my quest,
Deference lies, painful, inside my chest.
I climb atop mountains, when I'm alone,
Sing into deaf winds, release storms borne,
Swear bloody oaths, awaiting Jesus,
Fall upon swords, taste of self treason.
I will do what makes you feel best,
Shine the crown, adorn your crest,
Swathe you in blue satin, oh, majestic one,
Flattery belies fact, honored without reason.
Sing with me, a mourning dove song,
Sing, won't you sing, sing along,
In the red parlor, axe bladed for heads,
Fight, run, comply, each bring a different death.
Copyright 2021 Joan Wiley