License

White dove and battlefield
concelebrate
a poet's madness;
there beneath the sun,
her beating, dessicated wing,
a final tribute to the day of glory.

She dies.
No more upon the air
that soaring sign of hope
that peace will come. Instead
harsh echoes of the laughter
from the victors...caring not
for messengers who journeyed
through the light. Now the sun
itself becomes the coup,
a place of rest beneath a searing glare
much like a Friday afternoon
2000 years ago.

Would it be grace, or gratitude
with which the dove
would lift its head
beneath the cooliing shadow
of the upraised boot,
for one last offering of love
and loveliness?

Nevermind.
The dove is dead
~