Dove of peace
if i were but a dove of peace
i’d sit on the left hand of my found father
if i were but a dove of peace
i’d look from my perch on all the less fortunate others
if i were but a dove of peace
i’d know air less fetid, less crowded
than that i share in these cloisters, these dungeons, these chambers
traded plush for poor
but lacking nonetheless
each chamber of house or heart all void and lacking
if i were but a dove of peace
i’d not have traded fathers
killing one for the un-kissing other
if i were but a dove of peace
i would not take the word and deeds of a would-been saint
and used them against father and mother
if i were but a dove of peace
i’d less impoverish the souls beneath me
i’d less cage them in soul-killing and eye-rheuming piety
and their fingers would not crack
and their breath would come easy
and their step might spring at meadows
and their gaze might rise above these killing rooms,
above these cold-burning candles
and shorn of these stifling contemplations
these perpetual, circular, contemplations
these devotions devoid of life
devoid of meaning
devoid of the will free to render them
